


The Repatriation Affair

by Jazline



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26034268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: Their mission was to protect a pair of brothers, Russian ex-patriots, hunted by the KGB...until everything started to unravel.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Mid-November**

_Illya Kuryakin looked down into the mass grave, fixating on the still, frozen bodies covered in lye and snow. His destiny. One of the multitude of nameless corpses forever returned to Mother Earth, never to be seen or heard from again, as if they had never existed in the first place.  
  
The click of a gun being readied to fire snapped Illya back to the present. General Rosinov’s ungloved hand grasped the back of his neck tightly, so tightly Kuryakin could feel the fingernails digging into his skin. Illya’s shoulders stiffened at the touch.  
  
A flash of light blasted from the gun’s muzzle as the shot rang out behind Illya’s right ear. In the split second it took his brain to register the gunshot, the agent saw a red spray stain the snow around him. Then he succumbed to the inevitable blackness._

**Five Weeks Earlier**  
  
The morning’s meeting was unscheduled. Having just returned from a two-week mission in Madrid with virtually no time off, the agents had planned on spending the next few days filing their reports and having a little down time on light duty. An urgent matter had arisen and Alexander Waverly summoned them immediately.  
  
Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin sat around Mr. Waverly’s conference table looking through folders of photographs. The four images of men in their thirties, forties, and fifties were distinguished looking, professional.  
  
“I assume you recognize these photographs, gentlemen,” the UNCLE chief began.  
  
The senior agent thumbed through them silently, while Kuryakin put on his dark rimmed glasses to study them more intently.  
  
“Yes, of course,” Illya said, looking up at his superior. “Gregori Danovich Merkenin, his brother Joseph...” Kuryakin paused, examining a few more photos. “This is Pavel Denisovich Gorin...Stanislaw Ivanovich Riasonowsky...aren’t these four of the scientists who defected to the West about a decade ago?”  
  
Napoleon stared at Illya incredulously, still amazed at his partner’s vast store of knowledge. Illya “felt” the stare but ignored it.  
  
“You are correct, Mr. Kuryakin,” Alexander Waverly said. “Russia lost over three dozen of their top scientists, mathematicians, and academics to the West over the past ten years, and now they’re making an aggressive effort to ‘repatriate’ them.”  
  
“I assume that means ‘kidnap’ them, Sir,” Napoleon stated.  
  
“Yes. During the past ten days, all but these four have been reclaimed from England, Canada, France, and the United States.”  
  
“KGB?” Illya asked.  
  
“We believe so, Mr. Kuryakin. It appears they’ve groomed several of their agents to pass as Americans, Canadians, or British, hiding their affiliation with Russia.” Mr. Waverly tapped his pipe and sighed. “Scary. They could be anyone. These agents tracked down twenty of the defectors throughout the free world and forcibly returned them to Russia.”  
  
“What about these four?” Solo asked, thumbing through the photographs once more.  
  
“Mr. Gorin and Mr. Riasonowsky are under our protection in France. The Merkenin brothers were just moved from their residences in Salt Lake City to a farm in Wisconsin. At the moment, they’re secured. We’re trying to stay several steps ahead of the KGB, but I would like them brought here to UNCLE until we can safely relocate them again.”  
  
Illya bit his lip, afraid to hear the answer to his next question. “Do we have any idea where the Russians have taken the defectors?”  
  
“Our sources indicate they’ve been sent to labor camps throughout the Soviet Union. Obviously the government has been outraged by their defections and plans to incarcerate them. There seems to be a slight increase in the population of a few labor camps near Kolyma.”  
  
Kuryakin’s eyebrows raised. “Kolyma? I thought the camps were no longer being used. Weren’t they abandoned in the 1950’s or early ‘60’s?”  
  
Napoleon shifted in his seat, minimally embarrassed by his ignorance on the topic. He, like the majority of humanity, had never heard of Kolyma.  
  
“Unfortunately, Mr. Kuryakin, several smaller units south of the gold mines are actively serving as labor camps,” Mr. Waverly continued. “Since the gold is no longer being mined, the larger camp at Kolyma has been shut down. As of 1957, the camps have been used to incarcerate a criminal population as opposed to the political prisoners it housed in earlier years. Our sources picked up increased KGB traffic on Kolyma Road, coming from both Magadan and Vladivostok. I feel this indicates something is stirring the pot in far Northeastern Russia.”  
  
“Do we know who is running these camps?” Solo asked, trying to gain an understanding.  
  
“According to our records, a Colonel Ivan Kigaroff.” Mr. Waverly looked at Illya. “I believe Mr. Kuryakin is familiar with him.”  
  
Illya stirred in his seat, trying to downplay his discomfort. By now, the attention of both his boss and partner was focused on him.  
  
The blond agent cleared his throat quietly. “Yes. He was my mentor, the man who brought me into the KGB many years ago. I doubt he presently holds me in high esteem.”  
  
“But years ago, I assume he did...?” Solo probed.  
  
“Napoleon, he hand-picked me for the service when I was quite young and saw to my education and training.” Kuryakin seemed irritated having to talk about his past. “Had it not been for him, I would have remained in a state orphanage and been sent to do menial labor. He had planned my entire career with the KGB before I was old enough to shave.”  
  
“And then you defected,” Solo nodded, “probably humiliating him in the eyes of his superiors.” The senior agent paused. “You don’t think they’re looking to take you back to Russia as well?”  
  
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Kuryakin muttered.  
  
“Gentlemen, the pattern so far is the abduction of academics. My source indicates that Mr. Kuryakin is not one of their targets, so I’m sending both of you to Wisconsin to bring back the Merkenin brothers. Of course, if you gentlemen happen to stir the proverbial nest and flush out a few of the KGB agents, that would be greatly appreciated as well.” Mr. Waverly handed his two top agents large manilla envelopes. “Your plane leaves in two hours. Background information and photographs are enclosed with the tickets. Good luck, gentlemen.”  
  
Kuryakin and Solo stood up with Mr. Waverly’s dismissal, nodded and left his office.

  
  
“You don’t know much about Kolyma, do you?” Illya said flatly as they walked down the corridor.  
  
“That obvious?” Napoleon shrugged. “I’m usually a little more up to date on world affairs.”  
  
“Well, not many people know about Russian labor camps...Kolyma in particular. It was one of the worst.”  
  
The agents approached their office door and entered. They threw their manilla envelopes on their desks and fumbled in the small closet for their pre-packed suitcases.  
  
“Kolyma was a Stalin era labor camp, built solely to have prisoners of the state mine gold from the region. Unfortunately, it’s not in a very friendly environment. Winters are brutal. Kolyma is near the Arctic Circle and frozen most of the year. Thousands upon thousands died while incarcerated there.”  
  
“And the government continues using camps in that region.”  
  
“It’s so isolated up there, they can do whatever they want. Who is going to trek all the way out there to check up on what they’re doing? There’s one main road which leads east to Magadan, west to Vladivostok. Although they try to keep it open all year, with harsher than normal winters, it sometimes becomes impassable, isolating Kolyma even more.”  
  
Their bags were packed. The manilla folders were picked up and the agents left their office en route to the airport.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
The UNCLE agents’ flight to Dane County’s regional airport in Wisconsin was completely uneventful. Illya took advantage of the quiet time to nap; Napoleon took advantage of his time on board to flirt with the stewardesses, making tentative arrangements to meet with one stunning Amanda Wallace later that week. He would call to confirm their engagement, naturally.  
  
Their rental car was waiting for them. Napoleon filled out the required paperwork before he and Illya set out to meet with Gregori Danovich Merkenin and his brother Joseph.  
  
Solo drove and Kuryakin navigated north or Interstate 51. It was now past 6 pm and well past dusk. The skies had become overcast, the weather threatening a mix of sleet and snow as they headed further up the state. They decided to continue driving, hoping the weather would hold out until they reached the Merkenin brothers’ hideout.  
  
Luck followed them north on Interstate 51. By they time they reached Wausau, Kuryakin’s watch read a little past 8 pm. Their destination was about 60 miles away, and they hoped to beat the storm to St. Germain.  
  
“We’re looking for Route 70,” Illya said about an hour and a half later. “The turnoff should be at Woodruff.”  
  
The road sign they were looking for appeared and they steered the car East towards St. Germain. The roads were dark and virtually deserted this time of night.  
  
“The locals roll up the sidewalks early in this neck of the woods,” Napoleon commented, looking around for any sign of life.  
  
“It’s almost 10, Napoleon,” Illya said flatly. “They have to wake up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows. I doubt they keep the same hours as you.”  
  
Their next landmark was “Millie’s Country Store” about one mile west of St. Germain on Route 70. They passed it, then Napoleon clocked a mile on the car’s tripometer.  
  
Exactly one mile from the store was their driveway. Their directions indicated that the name on the mailbox at the head of the driveway would display the name “Canton.” The correct name was visible so the agents entered the dirt road which led to a two storey farmhouse.  
  
The porch light was on, indicating that they were expected. One room furthest to the right on the top floor had lights on, their signal that the house was secured. The entire first floor was lit up. A sedan was parked close to the front door.  
  
Regardless of all the signals being in place and the farmhouse apparently safe, the agents exited their car with their guns drawn. They split up and walked to different ends of the house, checking its exterior.  
  
The night air was cold and damp. As a child, Napoleon’s mother would describe this weather by saying: “It feels like snow in the air.” She was rarely wrong.  
  
As Illya neared the back door, the sound of a rather large dog growling and running in his direction stopped him in his tracks. By the time the doberman reached him, Kuryakin was safely crouching on the lowest limb of a large maple tree.  
  
“Aristotle! Come back here!” a thickly accented voice demanded.  
  
Aristotle the doberman ignored the command and continued sniffing around the spot where Illya stood seconds before.  
  
“Aristotle!”  
  
“Get away from the door, Gregori!” a non-accented voice whispered.  
  
The image of whom Illya assumed was Gregori moved from behind the kitchen door curtain. The light in the kitchen was turned off, then the door opened slightly and a man holding a gun emerged on the back steps.  
  
Aristotle began barking again when he found Illya’s hiding place. The agent silently climbed from branch to branch, getting further from the dog. The man with the gun hushed the dog and stood silently, listening for the sound of intruders. It was quiet.  
  
“The Chamber of Commerce indicates that I can buy a wheel of cheddar cheese here,” Illya said as he jumped down from the tree. Aristotle began growling and moving towards the blond agent. The man with the gun held his collar and commanded the dog to stop.  
  
“We only have muenster this time of year,” the man with the gun replied.  
  
“Then Swiss it is,” returned Kuryakin.  
  
The armed man holstered his gun and moved closer to Illya.  
  
“Agent Jonathon Senderling, Salt Lake City, Utah,” he said, introducing himself. “I escorted the Merkenin brothers here personally.”  
  
“Illya Kuryakin, New York,” the blond agent said, shaking Senderling’s hand. “You’re here by yourself?”  
  
“My partner came down with food poisoning on the way, so I took over the affair.”  
  
“Food poisoning? Are you sure?” Illya’s suspicious mind raced.  
  
“I didn’t think you were going to make it tonight.”  
  
“Had we been delayed, we would have contacted you. Is everything secure?” Illya asked as they walked towards the farmhouse kitchen door.  
  
“Yes. The Merkenin brothers were a little edgy. Every sound they hear is the KGB coming.”  
  
“I can understand their fears.”  
  
They walked inside the kitchen door and locked it behind them. Illya tested its security, frowning at the flimsiness of the door.  
  
“This offers no protection at all!” Illya snapped. “Why would you select a location with such poor security?”  
  
“This house is so far off the beaten track and so ‘typical,’ we doubt that the KGB would even suspect us of hiding them here.”  
  
“That’s poor logic!”  
  
Napoleon walked in after hearing his partner’s voice raising.  
  
“How’s the security in the front of the house?” Illya asked Napoleon.  
  
“Pretty skimpy.” Solo’s voice shared the same concern as his partner’s. “We can’t wait until tomorrow to get the Merkenin brothers out of here.”  
  
Gregori and Joseph followed Napoleon into the kitchen.

_Joseph was the younger and taller of the brothers. At the age of 35, he had the look of a man who was mature beyond his years. Trained as a nuclear physicist in the Ukraine, his talents did not go unnoticed by the Russian government. In his early 20’s Joseph Danovich Merkenin was developing nuclear warheads for the Soviet defense department.  
  
Gregori, on the other hand, took life a little less seriously than his younger brother. He was shorter, a bit more rotund and jovial. Like his brother, he studied in the Ukraine, only Gregori was an engineer. He and Joseph made a powerful team designing and building weapons.  
  
But the Merkenin brothers found that working under the repression of the Soviet government dominated every aspect of their professions. Choosing instead to work with less restrictions, they defected to the West.  
  
For the past decade the brothers worked both for the American government and private industry, enjoying the freedom of living in a democracy. Until now._

“Is something wrong?” Joseph asked. Illya recognized him as the man who came outside after Aristotle.  
  
“Yes.” Kuryakin shook his hand and introduced himself.  
  
Joseph in turn introduced his brother Gregori.  
  
“You’re Russian!” Gregori chirped in Russian and smiled. “We haven’t seen too many Russians here in America.”  
  
“I prefer conversing in English at the moment,” Illya said with urgency. “It’s not safe to keep you here.”  
  
“Why not?” asked Joseph. “Could the KGB find us in...as you say?...’sticks’?”  
  
“I doubt that would deter the KGB,” Napoleon responded. “I assume they’ve been tracking you all along.”  
  
“We haven’t seen KGB yet,” Gregori argued. “Why the rush?”  
  
“20 other defectors have already been kidnapped and returned to Russia,” Napoleon explained. “We’re trying to stay ahead of their game and keep as many of your ex-countrymen out of KGB hands.”  
  
“I doubt you’d recognize the KGB even if you saw them,” Illya muttered, still checking security. “Their agents on this mission are fairly Westernized.”  
  
The blond agent scoured the first floor for anything suspicious. He froze while examining the base of a chandelier and held up his hands for the others to stop talking. Kuryakin carefully pulled a bugging device off one of the decorative nubs beneath the lights. The bug was immediately drowned in a glass of water, rendering it useless.  
  
Several more devices were uncovered, but the house was so large and their time so limited, the agents weren’t sure they had gotten them all. Napoleon motioned for everyone in the house to go outside and get into their car. At least that was bug free.  
  
“We leave tonight,” Solo reiterated, pushing Aristotle out of his way. “Gregori and Joseph will split up and go in separate cars.”  
  
“We can’t leave,” Joseph protested. “Our wives and children join us tomorrow morning.”  
  
“It’s too risky staying here tonight,” Illya said adamantly. “The KGB is either here now or on their way. Unfortunately, my comrades, you have no say in the matter.”  
  
“I’ll stay behind to make arrangements for your families,” Napoleon assured them.  
  
“Do you think that’s wise?” Illya asked, assuming his partner would join the exodus.  
  
“Not really, but one of us has to it. As the senior agent, I’m ordering the two of you to escort Gregori and Joseph out of here...ALL the way to New York. Besides,” Solo smiled, “I’ll have Aristotle to keep me company.”  
  
It was settled. The Merkenin brothers gathered up their belongings and got into separate cars. Illya got behind the wheel of the one he and Napoleon rented at the airport, Jonathon Senderling in his.  
  
They planned to travel different eastern routes. Jonathon continued due east on Route 70 after leaving the farmhouse driveway. Illya drove Gregori north on Route 45 after driving east a short while on 70, picking up Route 2 in Michigan to head east. Both would rendezvous in Iron Mountain, Michigan, and wait for an UNCLE helicopter to transport them further East to New York City.  
  
The drop-off went as planned, and before midnight, the Merkenin brothers were safely on their way to the Big Apple. Kuryakin contacted Napoleon and informed him that the air mail package had been delivered.  
  
Despite Napoleon’s directive to stay with the brothers ALL the way to New York, Illya backtracked after the drop-off to rejoin his partner in St. Germain. He felt there was no purpose in him babysitting the Merkenin brothers since they were now completely in the hands of UNCLE personnel.  
  
On his way back to the farmhouse, snow began to fall. Illya turned on the radio to hear the local forecast. Fortunately, the squall passing through would only produce a light ground covering.  
  
Traveling the dark, icy, snow-slicked roads turned precarious about half way back to St. Germain. Kuryakin slowed to almost a crawl. The blond agent tried contacting his partner again, but his signal was left unanswered. He checked his watch - about another hour to the farmhouse. Perhaps the low cloud cover and the fact that he was virtually in the middle of nowhere at the moment interfered with the signal.  
  
Finally, a sign for St. Germain materialized in the distance. Illya kept a lookout for Millie’s grocery store, and then the “Canton” mailbox sign.  
  
The sedan’s clock read 2 am. He hadn’t seen a car on the road in quite some time, but there were several sets of relatively fresh tire tracks ahead of him on Route 70. He tracked them as he drove to the farmhouse and saw that the vehicles turned into the “Canton’s” driveway.  
  
Kuryakin stopped the car and backed up slightly, parking the car off the side of the road under the partial cover of pine trees. He rolled down the window and listened for a moment before getting out of the car. Silence.  
  
After rolling up the window Illya contacted Alexander Waverly at UNCLE headquarters, asking if the Merkenins’ families had arrived earlier than planned.  
  
“No, Mr. Kuryakin,” the UNCLE chief answered. “They’re not scheduled to arrive until mid-morning tomorrow.”  
  
“You must re-route their plans immediately. We have a few unwanted guests at the farmhouse in St. Germain.”  
  
“Aren’t you on the helicopter?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Mr. Solo’s orders were to have you two escort the Merkenin brothers. In essence, they were directives from me. I hope you have a valid excuse for this.”  
  
“No, sir. I don’t...just a feeling. Several vehicles have entered the driveway ahead of me. You just confirmed that Merkenin families were not due until tomorrow. I’m going to investigate.”  
  
“Very well. Please stay in contact.”  
  
Illya closed his communicator and left the car. He entered the driveway hugging the tree line alongside the road. Slowly, he neared the farmhouse.  
  
Three cars were parked near the house. Two by the front door, one by the back. Nondescript black sedans with Wisconsin license plates. A man leaned against one of the cars parked in the front, smoking a cigarette in the remnants of the snowfall. In the distance, Illya could see its tip glow red as he inhaled. One man stood on the front porch.  
  
Through the window, Kuryakin counted three more men standing in the living room.  
  
_That makes five so far_ , Illya thought.  
  
A tall, balding man, one of three inside, walked out the front door and met the one standing on the porch.  
  
“He refuses to talk,” a distant voice of the tall man said harshly. He spoke in perfect English with no trace of an accent.  
  
“Our informants confirmed that Gregori’s and Joseph’s wives and children will be here in the morning. If all else fails, we’ll use them as bargaining chips,” the man on the porch added, also fluent.  
  
“I don’t want to wait that long!” the bald man continued, his voice raising.  
  
“We may have no other choice, Alexi...”  
  
_KGB!_ Illya surmised from his hiding place. _Alexi...not Alex or Alexander._  
  
Kuryakin moved in a little closer. The last time he neared the house, Aristotle picked up on his presence immediately. He heard no barking, saw no sign of the dog.  
  
Movement from the kitchen window caught Illya’s attention. Two more men were now visible, making the total seven so far.  
  
The smoker crushed the remains of his cigarette in the snow and headed towards the back door. The balding man stepped back inside and the porch man remained where he was.  
  
Kuryakin climbed a tree to get a better view of what was happening in the living room. From his vantage point, he could see a little of Napoleon’s upper body. His partner was seated with his shoulders pulled back, his hands either handcuffed or tied behind the chair. Solo’s head pitched forward a bit. The bald man walked over to him and grabbed a fistful of hair. One of the other men stood in front of Napoleon and punched him in the stomach.  
  
Silently, Illya climbed down from the tree and crossed the driveway, staying just behind the tree line to move around the back of the farmhouse. The blackness of night and density of the trees shielded him sufficiently.  
  
As he walked, his foot nudged a still object. The agent looked down. Aristotle, dead and bleeding in the snow. Illya continued on until he reached the back of the house.  
  
“Do you have a cigarette?” Kuryakin whispered in Russian to the smoker.  
  
“Da!”  
  
Before the smoker could reach into his jacket pocket, Illya yanked him off the steps and knocked him out before dragging him in the bushes. The UNCLE agent went through the guard’s pockets and found what he was looking for - keys.  
  
Illya pulled the unconscious man to the car parked by the back door. He opened the door and placed the man in the driver’s seat, then closed the door. The blond agent reached in his boot and pulled out a small wad of plastic explosives which he placed under the tire well near the engine. He added the charge and ran back behind the trees. By the time the explosion went off, Kuryakin was near the front door, ready to enter after the KGB agents went to investigate.  
  
Knowing he only had a few moments alone with Napoleon, Kuryakin hurried to him, staying low to the floor. He began unlocking the handcuffs.  
  
Solo was bleeding from the nose and mouth. Blood also soaked through the chest and back of his shirt.  
  
“Get out of here!” Napoleon hissed, looking him squarely in the eye.  
  
“Not without you,” Illya responded flatly. “I’ve alerted Waverly to relocate the Merkenins’ wives and kids elsewhere, so it’s just the two of us.”  
  
The back door opened.  
  
“Go!” Solo snapped again.  
  
Illya pressed the key into Napoleon’s palm and silently slipped out the front door. He jumped over the railing and crept beneath the porch’s crawl space.  
  
Four of the seven guards left the burning car to check on Napoleon.  
  
“Toasting marshmallows?” Solo asked.  
  
The balding man struck him in the face.  
  
“Where are Gregori and Joseph Merkenin?”  
  
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. No one named Merkenin lives here.”  
  
From his hiding place, Kuryakin heard the entire interrogation. He waited until the front porch guard resumed his post to climb back out of the crawl space. Porch Man never even saw the agent coming. Illya grabbed him from behind in a stranglehold.  
  
The guard jammed his elbow into Kuryakin’s side, almost freeing himself. Illya moved Porch Man close to the rail then hurled over the side. No one inside the farmhouse heard the scuffle.  
  
Once on the ground, they wrestled for control. The porch man was taller and heavier than Kuryakin, but the blond agent was much younger and more agile and finally overtook the porch guard. He silently broke the guard’s neck, killing him instantly.  
  
Sensing something was wrong, the tall, balding man came out on the porch. His guard was gone. Immediately, he alerted his other men that an intruder was present, possibly another UNCLE agent. Two of his men stayed with Napoleon while the remaining two went searching. He returned inside.  
  
Illya had gotten far enough away to remain unseen. While the two guards frantically searched for him, he shimmied up a tree then carefully moved across branches until he reached the roof of the house.  
  
Once on the roof, he reached around the overhang to the upper level windows, hoping that the residents of St. Germain weren’t the type to lock their windows. Three were securely fastened, the fourth wasn’t. Kuryakin slowly lowered the top window pane and slipped his lithe body inside as silently as a cat.  
  
“Again...who has come to rescue you?”  
  
Illya recognized the voice of the balding man.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Three more slapping sounds.  
  
Kuryakin unholstered his UNCLE special and quietly moved towards the stairs in the hallway. He laid down on his belly and lowered himself two or three steps until he had full view of the living room. The bald man held a gun to Napoleon’s head while his two other cronies were beginning to intensify their interrogation. Illya shot off his first bullet, then his second. Only the tall, balding man remained standing with Solo.  
  
Illya kept his gun aimed at the the balding man as he lowered the bottom half of his body to level himself with the stairs before standing.  
  
“Who are you?” Kuryakin asked.  
  
“Aah, you must be Illya Nickovich Kuryakin,” the balding man remarked, pressing his weapon against Solo’s neck. “I should have known you’d be the one to come back for your partner.”  
  
Illya raised his gun to eye level. “Who are...”  
  
Before the final words left Kuryakin’s mouth, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed against the top of his head. Without wasting a second, Illya stepped back slightly and grabbed for the hand which held the gun, yanking it and its owner down the stairs. They rolled down the remaining steps together.  
  
At the bottom of the stairs, they grappled and wrestled each other, rolling on to a Persian carpet. A kick in the back stopped Kuryakin cold, and by the time he looked up, the second guard who had come in from outside was aiming a pistol between his eyes.  
  
Kuryakin was dragged to his feet and his hands cuffed behind his back. Once secured, he was pulled to the balding man like an offering waiting to be inspected.  
  
The balding man sneered. “Illya Nickovich Kuryakin. We finally meet.”  
  
Kuryakin scrutinized him silently, only knowing him as “Alexi.”  
  
Without warning, Illya took advantage of the leverage created by the men who held him and kicked the balding man squarely in the chest, pushing him backwards. Immediately, the blond agent stamped on the instep of the closest captor and pulled himself out of the grasp. The third KGB agent received a kick to the chin.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Napoleon struggling to discreetly unlock the handcuffs. Illya backed away from the Russians, drawing their attention to him. The KGB agents closed in, surrounding and eventually subduing him.  
  
“All right, comrades, we can leave now,” the balding man announced, bearing a wide grin. “We got what we came for.”  
  
Illya looked at his partner one last time before he was bodily dragged away. Napoleon’s eyes telegraphed his sadness. Solo tried warning him to get out, to stay away. Even in New York, the senior agent voiced his concern about Kuryakin being a target, Mr. Waverly never felt that a small fish like Illya Kuryakin would be in immediate danger with the recent kidnappings.  
  
The balding man and his two remaining colleagues forced Illya outside and into one of their remaining black sedans. The driver proceeded several hundred yards up the driveway and then turned the car around to face the house. Seconds later, the farmhouse exploded, sending a fireball hundreds of feet into the nighttime sky. Illya’s mouth opened and he audibly gasped at the sight, knowing that his partner, Napoleon Solo, had just died in the blast.


	2. Chapter 2

A coffin-sized crate labeled “Farm Equipment” was packed with others and prepared for loading on a freighter northward bound on the Pacific Ocean out of Seattle, Washington. A crane operator lifted the crates one by one and lowered them on the deck of the freighter as if he were putting together the pieces of a puzzle. They nested with precision, not wasting an inch of space.  
  
The operator’s instructions were to place the one labeled “Farm Equipment” closer to the top to allow for easy access and quick removal. He was under the impression that the recipient would be waiting at the dock to retrieve his crate immediately once the freighter came into port.  
  
By the time the crate was positioned on the freighter, the cargo inside the crate began to stir. Once the ship left the dock, the cargo became a little more cognizant. After the freighter was steaming its way north for an hour, the cargo fully regained consciousness.  
  
Illya struggled to free himself. He was literally bolted into the crate, with a harness around his chest and locks on his forehead, arms, wrists, legs and ankles. Movement was impossible, he was completely immobilized.  
  
It was dark inside at first. Dark and airless. As awareness increased, Kuryakin felt suffocated by the closeness of his environs. He tried to remain calm, not panic at his helplessness and keep a level head.  
  
The agent sensed the change of motion when the crane lifted him, but had no idea what was happening. A little light filtered through small spaces between the slats of wood as he was raised and the cool air sifting through the slats revived him a bit more.  
  
His mouth was gagged and several blankets were placed on top of him, compressing his body. The air coming through the openings in the wood turned cold once his crate was positioned; the blankets became a necessity to keep his body temperature from dropping.  
  
Once positioned on the freighter, he felt the slight rocking beneath him. The sound of seagulls’ mournful cries filtered in; Illya knew for certain he was at sea.  
  
The freighter's engine cranked up, followed by the continuous hum as it pulled out of port.  
  
A chill began settling in through the many layers in the crate. Illya was covered sufficiently on the top of him, but whoever packed him failed to insulate the areas beneath him. His warm coat had been removed, leaving only his clothing as the insulation between him and the crate. Cold crept up through the slats beneath his body. The bolts around him conducted the cold even faster than the wood, wrapping the wintry temperatures around whatever part of his body made contact with the metal. Soon, he was shivering.  
  
All Illya could see was a little bit of sky through the cracks. It looked overcast and gray from his vantage point. He hoped it wouldn’t snow, or worse, rain. If water seeped through the crate, he’d freeze for sure.  
  
For brief spells, the sun emerged from behind the clouds, warming him ever so slightly, but the temperature dropped again as Ol’ Sol became obscured.  
  
Day turned to late afternoon, then Illya saw a shift in the shadows and realized the freighter was turning slightly west. A short while later, the ship slowed to a halt.  
  
Illya could hear the distant sounds of men arguing. He focused on their exchange and realized there was a discrepancy about one particular piece of cargo...a helicopter would be receiving it...the owner was in a hurry...taking it to port would take too long...  
  
The arguing continued and Illya eventually heard the sound of helicopter blades hovering overhead. It was now dusk, and a searchlight from the aircraft criss-crossed the piles of nested crates until it found its prize. Through the slats, Illya saw the lights stabilize and remained focused on his crate.  
  
The sound of footsteps surround his wooden prison increased as several men were lowered from the helicopter to wrap a chain around his crate. The links scraped below the wood underneath him then jerked upward as he was winched up into the helicopter.  
  
Russian voices filtered through the crate next. One wanted to open the box, at least two others disagreed. Their orders were to transport the crate as is.  
  
“He may not be alive,” one of the voices, obviously the man who wanted the box opened, lamented.  
  
“That is not our problem,” another objected.  
  
Illya still shivered despite the slight rise in temperature while on board the helicopter. Although rarely claustrophobic, the sensation of being imprisoned in this coffin-like crate for God-knows-how-long was making him panic. The blond agent closed his eyes, making a concerted effort to calm himself down. _No point in losing control now,_ he thought.  
  
Moments later, a thin hose was passed through one of the slim openings in the slats and a clear, odorless gas was forced in. It only took seconds for Illya to lose consciousness.  
  


  
  
The cold concrete against the skin of his cheek was Illya’s first sensation, followed by the general feeling of chill and dampness. He struggled to move his limbs; his arms and legs had limited movement, bound by what felt like ropes. His mouth was still gagged, and a blindfold prevented him from seeing his environs. There were no sounds other than the beating of his own heart.  
  
Illya knew all too well that the KGB was trying to wear down his stamina. They left him in total isolation for an extended period of time without food, water, the ability to move or know his whereabouts. He assumed he was in the Soviet Union, probably at a labor camp or in prison.  
  
His thoughts drifted back to the Wisconsin farmhouse...trying to free Napoleon and then handing him the key to the handcuffs before the KGB agents returned...drawing attention away from Solo... watching the farmhouse explode...watching the farmhouse explode...the fireball rising up into the sky...watching the farmhouse explode. He only hoped that his partner was able to free himself and escape before the explosion.  
  
Illya shivered continuously. There was no way to stave off the cold which had crept deep inside him.  
  
  


  
  
Time became meaningless. When footsteps finally invaded the silence of Illya’s environment, the agent had no idea of the time, what day it was, or how long he had been left alone. His ear cocked towards the sound of people approaching, tensing his body in preparation for being struck as the footsteps came closer.  
  
He felt the ropes around his ankles being removed. Several strong hands lifted him up off the concrete floor and brought him to his feet. Judging by the sound of the footsteps as they entered, at least three people were in the room with him now. He decided not to struggle or put up a fight at the moment, preferring to wait until he actually saw what he was up against.  
  
Without saying a word, the hands guided and pushed him along several long corridors and 90 degree turns, through at least four doorways and up a flight of steps until they finally came to a halt. One of his escorts pushed him down into a chair and removed his blindfold and gag, but left the ropes binding his hands.  
  
Colonel Ivan Kigaroff sat across the desk. A little older and grayer than the last time they had met, but nevertheless the same stern, harsh, evil-looking man Illya remembered. Dressed in his formal navy blue KGB uniform, Kigaroff gave the word “authoritarian” a decisive meaning.  
  
The Colonel stared at his former protégée a few moments, taking in whatever he could from Illya’s outward appearances. The past 24 hours had been hellish for the UNCLE agent, yet he maintained a proud defiant demeanor.  
  
“So we meet again, Illya Nickovich,” the Colonel finally said.  
  
“That sounds a bit trite after all these years,” Illya responded without emotion. “By the way, where exactly are ‘we’?”  
  
“Aah! You’ve been brought back to Northeastern Russia. Kolyma, to be exact. You’ve heard of our little corner of the world, yes?”  
  
“Just rumors. Something about the government using slave labor to mine gold, if I recall.”  
  
“Very good. Only we no longer operate the mines.”  
  
“But you still operate the labor camps.”  
  
“Just for the select few, Illya Nickovich.”  
  
“Does that include the people you recently kidnapped from the States and Western Europe?” Illya asked.  
  
“’Repatriated’, if you please. And no, not all of them. We’ve had eight incarcerated here. The others are scattered throughout the Soviet Union at other camps. Our government looks harshly upon defectors.”

"Had?"

"Several have met with untimely deaths."  
  
“You’d rather let them die in obscurity rather than allow them the option of working again?”  
  
“They can’t be trusted. But...let’s get back to you. It looks as though your years in the West have treated you well. You’ve grown up quite a bit since we’ve last seen each other. You were what...barely 17 when you left the Soviet Union?”  
  
“Barely.”  
  
Colonel Kigaroff stood up. He was taller than Illya remembered, with sharp, rugged features and piercing eyes. Kigaroff could have been the poster boy for joining the KGB. He had the quintessential look of a tyrannical leader, and was indeed as harsh as he appeared.  
  
The heels of his knee-high boots clicked on the concrete floor as Kigaroff approached. Without saying a word, he backhanded Illya across the face twice. The blond head flew back with the force of each strike.  
  
Kuryakin did not react. He was in no position to either defend himself or escape, and knew that it would be a waste of his precious energy to fight back now.  
  
“Where did I go wrong?” Kigaroff asked with mock concern. “You had such potential, Kuryakin. I saw that from the very beginning. Your intelligence and perceptions were years ahead of your time. Even when you were 10 years old I knew you were meant for more than the mundane existence of a farmer or laborer...which is what you would have become had I not intervened.”  
  
“And I will always be appreciative,” Illya responded dryly.  
  
Colonel Kigaroff sat down on the corner of his desk.  
  
“I took you under my wing, made you my special assignment. My superiors kept close watch on you, hoping that I had not overestimated your intelligence. But I proved them wrong. You were the brightest child I’d ever met. I pulled strings to get you into the best schools.”  
  
“Your ‘best schools’ were worse than the orphanage I came from.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Illya glared at his former mentor, hating to relive this painful part of his past. “The teachers and headmaster were brutal, beating Soviet indoctrination into us.”  
  
“And if my memory serves me correctly, you were often in the headmaster’s office.”  
  
“He had little patience for anyone who expressed original thought. Unless we were spouting Communistic garbage verbatim, we were disciplined harshly.”  
  
“But it toughened you...made a man out of you.”  
  
Illya was seething, but maintained a calm exterior. “A 10-year-old boy does. not need to be beaten into manhood. Perhaps life as a common laborer would have been better than being tortured as a child.”  
  
“Apparently you survived.”  
  
“It was a trade-off, Ivan. I had the presence of mind to endure whatever I had to for an education, even if it meant being abused. Even as a boy I knew I wouldn’t get far if I remained ignorant, so I played your game until I could find an escape.”  
  
“And by ‘escape’ I assume you mean Alexander Waverly...UNCLE.”  
  
“He sought me out while I was studying in Paris.”  
  
“Yes, that was my mistake. I felt you deserved to expand your horizons, become more worldly after spending two years in the Navy.”  
  
“You sent me there when I was 15...to spy for the KGB.”  
  
“And it worked out rather well, wouldn’t you say? No one suspected a young innocent like you.”  
  
Illya glowered at Kigaroff. “My ‘innocence’ as you called it, was quickly taken from me. But you knew that, didn’t you?”  
  
The colonel grinned. “Of course I knew the reputation of some of those older, more seasoned men aboard the submarine. They love to initiate their young, ‘innocent’ fledglings as quickly as possible.”  
  
Illya sat silently, eyes fixed on his former mentor.  
  
“I had kept in contact with your commander,” Colonel Kigaroff continued. “He also was impressed with how feisty you were. How many times was it?... five...six? ...that he had to bring you in for disciplinary actions?”  
  
“Seven.”  
  
“Seven times in two years. My memory eludes me at the moment. He brought you in because...?”  
  
“Cut the crap, Ivan,” Illya smirked. “Your memory never eludes you.”  
  
“Ah, right. Now I remember. Stabbings, fist fights ...did I miss something?”  
  
“All in self defense, which I assume my commander overlooked.”  
  
“No. In all fairness to you, he knew the basis for your actions. He was amazed that a skinny, fair haired man-child like you could defend yourself so well.”  
  
“It merely took two stabbings to deter those other ‘older, seasoned men’ from raping me. They caught on rather quickly.”  
  
“But these experiences helped mold you into the man you are today. You have me to thank for that, Illya Nickovich. Your tour with the Navy was basically exemplary. That’s why the KGB, at my recommendation, decided to send you to France to continue your education. We ...I ... had grand plans for you. I even envisioned you rising to the rank of General at a very young age. But I overestimated your allegiance to Russia.”  
  
“My allegiance to Russia has always been strong. It’s the governmental oppression that pushed me away. I would never have left had I been given freedom here.” Illya smirked, then grinned. “I guess even you need to watch your back, eh? One false move and you could be my bunkmate. Historically, you’ve already fallen from grace with the head honchos upstairs.”  
  
Kigaroff stood and moved closer to Illya. He balled up his fist and rammed it into Kuryakin’s midsection. The agent gasped and bent at the waist. The KGB colonel grasped a handful of blond hair and sat him upright, punching him again. Then he kicked over the chair, causing Illya to sprawl on the floor.  
  
After several kicks to the chest and side, Kigaroff stopped.  
  
“Have you any idea what an embarrassment you became? I was the laughing stock of my unit.” Kigaroff grabbed Illya’s shoulders to bring his face closer. “I was demoted in rank and disciplined for your actions. Humiliated! It took years for the KGB to reinstate my position!” The colonel was yelling, furious with what Illya Nickovich Kuryakin had done to him.  
  
Illya attacked the colonel off guard. The agent swung his feet behind Kigaroff and knocked him to the ground, securing him in a scissors hold. Colonel Kigaroff struggled to get out of the grip.  
  
Kuryakin finally released him and rolled away until he was a safe distance from his former mentor. Slightly less than gracefully, he managed to get to his feet, even with his hands still bound behind his back.  
  
The two men circled each other.  
  
“Quit while you’re ahead, Kuryakin,” Kigaroff warned. “One call from me and my guards will descend upon you like hell itself.”  
  
Kigaroff lunged at Illya, who averted the attack by stepping aside. They circled each other again; this time, Illya waited until the colonel began his offensive move before attacking with karate kicks squarely to the face, slamming the KGB officer into the door.  
  
His guards, hearing the ruckus, ran into Kigaroff’s office and subdued Kuryakin.  
  
“Get him out of here! Show him a little of our hospitality!” the colonel ordered.  
  


  
  
Kuryakin's clothing had been removed the moment he stepped into the cell. Over the next 12 hours, the KGB guards paid repeated visits to Kuryakin’s cell, beating him to wear him down. Each time, he resisted, fighting them off the best he could. The guards entered en masse, overpowering him the moment they stepped inl. After each session, Illya could feel a little of his stamina slipping away.  
  
He hadn’t eaten since leaving New York...how many days ago? HIs bruised body ached from the repeated poundings, and now lay on a cold, damp floor wrapped only in a thin blanket.  
  
When the KGB agents left after their first visit with him, Illya took a few moments to collect his bearings then thoroughly scoured the cell for any means of escape. The 12 foot square room had concrete walls and floor, with a solid steel door leading to the outside corridor. His clothing and all his defensive devices were taken from him. No bed; a thin, moth-eaten blanket was left on the floor as his only bedding. No toilet, only a bucket was left for his use. A harsh bare light bulb hung from the high ceiling, encased in protective meshed metal.  
  
The light bulb could have been of some assistance if he could only reach it. Located 12 feet off the floor with nothing to stand on and no other access, it was virtually useless. After a fruitless search, Illya wrapped the blanket over his shivering body and sat down, drawing his knees to his chest.  
  
Occasionally his mind wandered to his last moments before being kidnapped.

_“Get out of here!” Napoleon hissed, looking him squarely in the eye.  
  
“Not without you,” Illya responded flatly.  
  
The back door opened.  
  
“Go!” Solo snapped again.  
  
Illya pressed the key into Napoleon’s palm and silently slipped out the front door._

The guards came in again, pulling Illya to his feet. This time, they secured his back to the wall with manacles before beating him. The vulnerable areas of his bare chest, solar plexus, and abdomen were targeted with their fists. After only a few minutes, Kuryakin was pitched forward, unable to catch his breath. His face reddened, then paled. The guards cut their time with him short, fearing that the agent would pass out.  
  
Illya fell to the floor when the manacles were removed. His chest and belly burned, his skin reddening from the strikes. Ironically, he radiated enough heat to warm him temporarily. Soon, the chill settled back in him and he crawled to the blanket which had been tossed several yards away. For comfort, he wrapped the blanket around him and curled up into a fetal position to lessen his pain.  
  
To help maintain his sense of reality, he mentally ran through more of what transpired before the KGB took him away. _  
_

_“Who are you?” Kuryakin asked.  
  
“Aah, you must be Illya Nickovich Kuryakin,” the balding man remarked, pressing his weapon against Solo’s neck. “I should have known you’d be the one to come back for your partner.”…The balding man sneered. “…We finally meet.”  
  
_

Kuryakin’s thoughts were interrupted again when Colonel Kigaroff came in to personally oversee his guards’ work. A leather strap was looped and held in his right hand. Three of his henchmen followed.  
  
“You don’t look very threatening now, Illya Nickovich,” he sneered, pulling back the blanket to see how well his guards had beaten Kuryakin.  
  
Illya squirmed slightly, saying nothing to his former mentor.  
  
“Still the silent type, aren’t you?”  
  
Kigaroff kicked him in the chest; Illya remained quiet.  
  
“Even your headmasters were impressed by your high threshold for pain,” the colonel continued. “You would disobey them or refuse to learn what they demanded, and even as a boy, you accepted your punishment silently. None of that silly crying or whimpering. But that too will end. I can guarantee that by the time I’m finished with you, I will be deafened by the sound of your screams, begging me to stop.”  
  
“I’ll haunt you from my grave before that happens,” Illya said without emotion.  
  
The blanket was pulled off Kuryakin before the guards stood him up. Illya shivered and bent at the waist, arms wrapped around himself to support his sore belly.  
  
“Do you want him secured, Colonel?” one of the guards asked.  
  
The leather strap uncoiled in the colonel’s hand. “No, not at the moment.”  
  
Kigaroff moved in immediately, lashing the strap at Illya’s naked body, not caring where the blows landed. Illya backed away slowly, trying to protect himself. The colonel continued his assault even after the agent was backed into a corner, beating him until Kuryakin's legs gave out and he collapsed on the floor.  
  
Once he stopped, the colonel could hear Illya’s stifled moans. Pleased that he was able to elicit some testament to Kuryakin’s pain, he and his guards left.  
  
Illya remained on the cold concrete floor for a long while before attempting to move. The chill deadened some of his pain. When the coldness became uncomfortable, he made the effort to cover himself with the blanket.

_Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Napoleon struggling to indiscreetly unlock the handcuffs. Illya backed away from the Russians, drawing their attention to him. The KGB agents closed in, surrounding and eventually subduing him.  
  
“All right, comrades, we can leave now,” the balding man announced, bearing a wide grin. “We got what we came for.”  
  
  
_Illya willed himself to negate the pain and fall asleep. He was tired and extremely weak from the beatings and lack of food. His body desperately needed sleep, his soul needed a respite. _  
  
_

_* * * * *_

  
  
The sound of metal scraping on concrete awakened Kuryakin. His eyes opened. No one entered. A tray of food had been pushed into his cell from the slot in the metal door.  
  
Illya examined the food. Meager but relatively substantial. A large slice of brown bread sat on the tray next to a heavy metal bowl of watery broth. There were no utensils on the tray. His captors didn’t even trust him to use a spoon without devising a weapon from it.  
  
He picked up the bowl of soup and poked around it with his fingers. Nothing sharp inside. Only a few small pieces of potatoes and carrots. Illya considered the possibility of it being drugged or poisoned. Then he shrugged his shoulders and ate. At this point, he’d doubted that the KGB would have risked “repatriating” to Russia only to poison him.  
  
After consuming the soup, Illya ate the bread. It was a relief to finally have some food in his belly. He pushed the tray back to door and curled up to sleep again.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
For what Illya assumed was the next two days, food arrived and the empty trays were removed. He tried to sleep as much as possible to begin healing. Each time the tray scraped across the concrete floor, the sound jolted him awake, but he was relieved to see that Kigaroff or his guards were not walking through the door.  
  
The fare was generally the same. Twice, a hard boiled egg was added to the tray. It didn’t matter, though. It was food.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
A guard entered the cell while Illya was finishing his last slice of bread. He carried a pair of gray wool trousers and a shirt, and ordered Illya to put them on.  
  
The agent assessed the scenario as he dressed. Himself. One guard. The door was ajar. He felt stronger than he had in days.

The elastic waistband of the trousers slid over his hips. He assumed there were more guards outside the door, if not Kigaroff. His chances of escaping at this moment were small. He’d wait. He slipped the shirt over his head and his arms into the sleeves.  
  
The clothing was poorly tailored and ill fitting. No buttons or zippers were used as fasteners. The shirt was dirty, worn and frayed, but in better condition than the pants which had holes in the knees and several tears throughout.  
  
Before leaving the cell, the guard cuffed Kuryakin’s hands behind him. He was led back to Colonel Kigaroff’s office, plodding down the cold corridors in his bare feet.  
  
“My sources tell me that your partner was killed when the KGB blew up the farmhouse in Wisconsin,” Colonel Kigaroff began. He watched Kuryakin’s expression carefully, but the blond agent’s face remained passive. “The damage to the building was so extensive that it would be virtually impossible to identify the remains of several people who died in the blast.”  
  
Illya remained expressionless.  
  
“Your superiors at UNCLE assume you were in the building with Napoleon Solo, so I doubt they’ll even entertain the notion that we’ve brought you back to Russia,” the colonel continued. “But, just to be sure, our records will show no evidence of your being here.”  
  
Kigaroff grinned, laughing slightly.  
  
“You see, Illya Nickovich Kuryakin has ceased to exist,” he gloated. “Even if UNCLE has the slightest suspicion that you may have be ‘repatriated’, there would be no way in hell they’d ever find you. Only you and I know you’re here. It’s our little secret.”  
  
Illya felt his heart beat faster. **_If_ **Napoleon had made it out of the farmhouse, **_if_** he was able to contact headquarters, **_if_** UNCLE planned to rescue him, **_if_** the Soviet government would oblige them with a little assistance... ** _if_** there was a record of Illya Kuryakin being brought back to Russia...  
  
“You are now Yvegney Petrovich Gronski, a college professor sent here because he spoke out against the government.” Kigaroff smiled. “According to the records, you came to Kolyma four months ago. Your sentence is a life term at hard labor. You will be housed in Cottage 12, among the general population. There are 26 prisoners,” he paused, grinning. “...well, 27 now, and three prisoner ‘aparatchiks’, my ‘functionaries’ who are responsible for keeping you in line.”  
  
Colonel Kigaroff moved closer to Illya.  
  
“You will particularly enjoy the company of Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar, one of our more zealous aparatchiks. He has, shall I say...a horrendous reputation. Murder... rape... just to name a few of his indiscretions.”  
  
Kigaroff dramatically paused for a moment. “Hmmm, what else do I need to tell you... oh, yes... you will be fed three times a day if and only if you work. The functionaries will wake you about 6 am. You’ll have ten minutes to dress and use the toilet before eating. Work begins at 6:30. You’ll have a short break at noon, then you’ll continue working until six.  
  
“Your job will be keeping the grounds shoveled. Some of the non-risk prisoners get the task of clearing the road outside the prison, but you, and the men in your cottage, are assigned to work within the fence...for obvious reasons, you understand. The rest of your clothing will be given to you before you enter Cottage 12. Any questions, Yvegney Petrovich Gronski?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I hope you enjoyed your brief experience with freedom, Yvegney Petrovich, since that’s all behind you now. Work here is hard. I make it as difficult as possible for the prisoners, and I’m making it my personal project to create a living hell for you. Pretty soon, your past life will become a distant memory, a dream you’ll soon forget.”  
  
The colonel called in four of his guards to escort Yvegney Petrovich Gronski to Cottage 12. Illya stood and walked between them, his hands still bound behind his back. After ascending a flight of stairs and going through an endless maze of hallways, the guards stopped at a door with the number “32” on it. One guard unlocked the door and they all went inside.  
  
The room was filled with shelves containing numerous articles of clothing in various sizes.  
  
“What size boot do you wear?” one of the guards snapped at Illya.  
  
“42,” Kuryakin responded.  
  
A moment passed. “We have no 42s. 44 will have to do.”  
  
The guard came back a short while later with winter weight woolen trousers, a heavy sweater, pea coat, boots, socks, gloves, scarf, and a woolen cap. The five men left the room, the door was locked, then they headed outside to Cottage 12.


	3. Chapter 3

The frigid night air took Illya’s breath away. The guards had on heavy coats and boots, but refused to let the agent dress before leaving the building. Illya was still in the thin gray prison uniform and bare feet, walking through calf-deep snow. By the time they reached the cottage only a few hundred yards away, he was numb with cold.  
  
29 pairs of eyes looked at him when the guards brought him inside the cottage. The room was relatively large, with 10 sets of three-tiered bunk beds for the prisoners. A separate adjoining room was off to the left. Illya assumed it was the bathroom. In the center of the room was a long rustic wooden table with a few chairs around it. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling for light in the windowless room. A small pot-bellied stove stood by the adjoining room for heat, but according to the temperature in the cottage, it was highly inadequate.  
  
Illya’s clothing was dumped in a pile on the floor before the guards left, locking the door behind them.  
  
Several men jumped up out of their spots and ran towards the pile of clothing, hoping to pilfer whatever they could get their hands on.  
  
“Leave them!” a voice boomed.  
  
The men obediently stopped and looked at the person who just yelled. They turned around and returned to their places.  
  
A large, beefy man approached Illya.  
  
“You must be Yvegney Petrovich Gronski. I am Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar, the main aparatchik of the cottage. The other two functionaries are Vadim and Dimitri.” The big man motioned for them to come over and be introduced. They were both smaller than Lidovar, but heartier looking than the rest of the cottage’s population. After the introductions, Lidovar motioned for the other two men to go away.  
  
Lidovar stayed, eyeing him up and down lecherously. Kuryakin turned his back to dress himself in the additional clothing, ignoring the man who towered over him.  
  
A pair of strong hands spun Illya back around, then began roaming over his chest. Leonid Ivanovich’s hands slipped under the shirt to feel Illya’s skin.  
  
“This boy is mine!” Lidovar sneered, moving his hands under the waistband of Illya’s trousers.  
  
Illya scanned the room quickly. Everyone’s eyes turned away, ignoring Lidovar’s actions. Obviously his intimidation reached deep within the unit.  
  
“I seriously doubt that,” Kuryakin hissed between clenched teeth. He pulled himself away from Lidovar.  
  
Leonid was unaccustomed to rejection. He bullied and intimidated everyone in the cottage to the point where no one dared refuse him. Many had suffered the consequences of putting up a fight. As an aparatchik, or functionary, Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar was in control of his unit. He had the authority to punish the prisoners, feed them or withhold food, keep them in line any way possible. The KGB and guards running the labor camp turned a blind eye to his actions, allowing him the autonomy of using whatever means he chose to maintain control.  
  
By the prisoners’ reactions to Lidovar’s advances, Illya knew right then that he had probably raped every one of them. They wouldn’t watch, in essence empowering him to assault whomever he wanted right in front of them all.  
  
Lidovar grabbed Kuryakin’s shirt and punched him in the stomach. The force sent the blond agent sprawling on the floor. He got back on his feet quickly and into a defensive stance. The functionary kept moving closer, keeping eye contact with his new challenge. He sneered and shook his head at Illya, feigning attack to draw the agent towards him.  
  
Leonid maneuvered Illya to back into the table. At the precise moment the blond agent was distracted by his impediment, Lidovar grabbed his arm and twisted him around, flattening his torso on the table top. While holding down the back of his neck with one hand, the aparatchik rammed his other fist into Illya’s side several times.  
  
Out of breath and strength, Illya stopped struggling, assuming he was going to be raped where Lidovar held him. Past experiences taught him that it was better to relax his body than sustain further injury by tensing. Once Lidovar felt the body relax, he pulled him upright and turned him face to face.  
  
Still bruised and sore from Colonel Kigaroff’s and his guards’ beatings, Illya knew he couldn’t continue fighting this man. Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar’s strength would definitely outlast his. He'd wait for the opportune moment.  
  
Not a sole in the room reacted to Lidovar’s actions. The other men, even the other two functionaries, seemed to freeze in place, afraid to move or say or do anything to stop him. Or even interrupt him.  
  
Lidovar forcefully pulled Illya towards the adjoining room. After opening the door, he pushed Kuryakin through and slammed it shut.  
  
It was not a bathroom as Kuryakin had assumed. It was a private bedroom, with two small cots pushed together to create a larger bed. Several pillows lay on top of a thick, woolen blanket. A lamp brightened the dingy interior, seated on a crate which substituted for an end table. Three hooks were screwed into the wall, each holding varying amounts of heavy outerwear. Six pairs of boots were lined up next to the crate. Hats, gloves, and scarves were piled up on the crate.  
  
“Are those yours or did you steal them from the other men?” Illya asked sarcastically.  
  
Leonid Ivanovich was in no mood to talk. He brusquely pushed Illya’s chest against a wall, then pressed his own body up against him.  
  
Illya remained calm while Lidovar’s large hands began caressing the skin beneath his clothing. They slid across his chest and belly, then down his abdomen. Kuryakin squirmed slightly as the hands touched his genitals, but his movements only aroused Lidovar more.  
  
“You are such a beautiful man,” Lidovar whispered in his ear, panting slightly. His hands continued roaming across the taut, defined muscles of Illya’s chest.  
  
The UNCLE agent could feel Leonid’s erection pressing into the small of his back. Patiently, Illya allowed the touches.  
  
Lidovar kissed the back of Illya’s neck, running his hands through the soft blond hair.  
  
Illya squirmed again, trying to move away. Leonid chuckled deep in his throat, almost like a growl, and turned him around so they faced each other.  
  
“You’re not getting away that easily,” he threatened.  
  
Without a word, Illya drew his knee up into Lidovar’s groin. White light flashed before Leonid’s eyes as his balls and erect penis responded to the pain. As he bent over howling in agony, Illya finished his assault with several blows to the face, knocking out a decayed tooth and splitting the big man’s lip.  
  
Illya grabbed a handful of his hair and glared into the red eyes.  
  
“Don’t ever touch me again,” Kuryakin warned, seething with anger before slamming Leonid’s head into the wall.  
  
He pushed Lidovar down on the bed and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.  
  
All eyes stared at him. Illya gazed around the room at the other men, who abruptly averted their gaze and turned away.  
  
He went to his assigned bed and finished dressing in the warmer clothing. The boots were tucked against the far end of his bed, close enough to him so he could protect them from being stolen while he slept. Everything else he now owned was on his body.  
  
The thin straw mattress would offer little comfort or support, but he was so tired it really didn’t matter where he’d sleep. The worn blanket was practically useless. Illya hoped the extra layers of clothing would be sufficient to keep him warm.  
  
His pillow was missing. Illya looked around the room. All eyes were on him once more, and like before, immediately turned away. All the beds had a single pillow...except Lidovar’s.  
  
The blond agent stormed into the private room and silently yanked a pillow off the bed while Lidovar lay there in a fetal position, hoping the pain would pass.  
  
“You sonofabitch!” Lidovar rasped. “You’ll live to regret this!”  
  
Kuryakin merely glowered at him with icy blue eyes before walking out.

  
* * * * *

  
  
Illya slept lightly that night, trusting his intuition for self preservation. Several hours after the lights were turned out, a door creaked open, and a large, hulking man silently walked over to his bunk with a wooden club. In the near blackness, Kuryakin awoke to see arms raise above the head to strike him. He rolled off the bed as the club was on its downward swing and tackled his attacker at the knees.  
  
By the man’s sheer size, the agent knew it was Lidovar. In the darkness, they scrabbled on the floor. The overhead lights went on a moment later, waking everyone who had not already been roused. Dimitri and Vadim ran over and broke up the fight, pulling Illya off Leonid.  
  
“You are more ignorant than I originally thought!” Kuryakin hissed, wiping blood off his lower lip.  
  
Slowly, Lidovar got up, a little shaky from the unexpected backlash of his new charge. No one had challenged him before, and the last person he thought would dare stand up to him was this slight, defiant man. Like a raging bull, the functionary's nostrils flared and he rushed Kuryakin.  
  
The two other aparatchiks knew what Leonid planned to do, so each grabbed one of Illya’s arms to steady him. Kuryakin used their support to pull his knees to his chest and kick Lidovar in the jaw, snapping his head back. Illya then pushed the two men off himself and on top of their comrade.  
  
The door to the cottage swung open and a small battalion of guards rushed in. When Vadim switched on the light, a signal was relayed to the security station and the guards were alerted to the disturbance.  
  
Assuming Kuryakin was the cause of the problem, they surrounded him with guns drawn. One grabbed the collar of his coat and began dragging him to the door, Lidovar backed away, sneering.  
  
“He’s the one you should be taking away!” Illya complained. “He tried to club me in my sleep.”  
  
Without acknowledging the remark, the guards continued pulling him to the door.  
  
“At least let me get my boots,” the agent said, nodding towards his bunk.  
  
The guards looked at each other, then allowed him that one small courtesy before taking him back outside.  
  


  
* * * * *

  
“Well, you’re not off to a very good start,” Colonel Kigaroff mused as he entered Illya’s all-too-familiar cell. “Brawling with Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar. I must say, you’ve created a formidable enemy in him.”  
  
Illya sat propped up against the wall of the cell, silently refusing to dignify Kigaroff’s remarks with an answer.  
  
“Hmmm. Even as a young boy you were feisty,” the colonel continued. “The larger children always tried taking advantage of you.” Kigaroff sighed dramatically. “I assume that’s one of the problems in being small of stature. But you always fought back. You often left like a whipped dog, but you never gave up. I see you still have that aggressive nature.” He forced a smile. “Let’s hope it lasts, eh? In my experience, those rough edges soften pretty quickly around here.”  
  
Kigaroff was slowly walking around the cell, virtually talking in soliloquy with Illya’s silence.  
  
“Leonid always gets what he wants, you know,” smirked the colonel. “What was it this time? Did he want your clothing? No...I doubt anything would fit him.” Kigaroff scratched his chin and looked at the ceiling, dramatically pondering. “Although he does have that stash of clothing he gives away to his favorites...hmmm.” The colonel turned his gaze to Illya and snapped his fingers. “I know, he wanted to fuck you, didn’t he? That’s it? Another notch in his belt. If my memory serves me correctly, his percentage rate is 100.”  
  
Still, Illya sat without saying a word, maintaining eye contact with the colonel.  
  
Colonel Kigaroff’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “He didn’t get you, did he? Well, I’ll be damned!” Kigaroff moved close to Illya and jokingly punched him on the shoulder. “That’s a first. I would have laid money on him giving it to you up the ass within the first hour. You’re feistier than I thought. Wait until my guards hear about this!” Kigaroff chuckled, then cackled.  
  
Illya closed his eyes in exasperation. Kigaroff’s game plan was beginning to sink in. The colonel was obviously planning to pit the two men against each other, starting with rumors he planned to spread throughout the ranks. They both knew that once Lidovar got wind of what the guards were saying about him, belittling his sexual prowess, he’d be out for blood. Kuryakin’s.  
  
“If you keep this up, you could conceivably take his place as a cottage functionary,” Kigaroff laughed. “That be a kick in the pants for Leonid, wouldn’t it.”  
  
The colonel extended his hand to help Illya on his feet. “You have definitely rattled his cage, Kuryak...oops...Gronski. I, for one, would not want to be in your shoes.”  
  
Two guards held open the door while Kigaroff pushed him through. They walked through the same corridors, turned the same corners, and climbed the same stairs Illya had done several times in the past few days.  
  
Glaring brightness from the morning sun bouncing off the snow blinded Illya momentarily when he was led outside. The colonel still had a firm grasp on his coat as he was taken to his work station.  
  
“I’m going to let this one slide,” Kigaroff said quietly before depositing Kuryakin with his cottage’s functionaries. “But don’t count on such benevolence in the future.”  
  
Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar took a firm hold of Kuryakin’s collar and pushed him bodily towards the rest of his prisoners who were already shoveling snow. The beefy functionary’s mouth was swollen and bruised, his jaw aching from the previous night. En route Lidovar picked up a shovel from an equipment kiosk, gripping it tightly in his gloved fist.  
  
“I’m going to make you regret the day you were born,” Lidovar hissed under his breath as they walked.  
  
Illya ignored him, infuriating the functionary even more.  
  
They finally arrived to the area of the compound which was being cleared of snow. All 27 of his cottage’s prisoners were busily shoveling last night’s snowfall in to large mounds. One or two of the men stopped briefly to watch them, but Lidovar glared at each one, sending the silent message to return to work.  
  
Lidovar released Kuryakin’s coat and swung the shovel like a baseball bat, attempting to catch the agent off guard. Illya ducked to avert the blow then backed away slightly, maintaining a safe distance from Leonid.  
  
“Will you stop this stupidity already,” Illya snapped. “You’re beginning to look ridiculous!”  
  
Kuryakin kept moving slightly, trying to anticipate Lidovar’s next moves. The big man continued advancing, glaring at him as he moved. The few times he tried rushing Illya, the agent would gracefully step aside and let the bumbling functionary stumble in the snow.  
  
Finally, Lidovar stood up straight and sneered. Illya maintained his distance, refusing to lower his defenses even though his advisory stopped.  
  
In an uncontrollable motion, Illya felt himself falling backwards. As he landed in the snow, he heard the snickering of the guard who tripped him.  
  
Lidovar flew through the air with more speed than imaginable for a man of his size. Illya rolled as soon as he fell, leaving Leonid laying in the snow by himself, embarrassed and losing more credibility as the seconds ticked on.  
  
Illya quickly sprang to his feet, again moving to a safe distance from Lidovar. He debated becoming the aggressor, but decided to let Leonid tire himself out first.  
  
Frustration showed on the functionary’s face and body language. Despite the frigid temperatures, he was beet red and sweaty. He huffed as he breathed and began making awkward, unintelligent moves towards Kuryakin.  
  
The guards were highly amused by this interaction. Several of them gathered around and threw verbal barbs to Lidovar, infuriating him further.  
  
“You can’t control this skinny little man?” one yelled.  
  
“Hey, Lidovar! You’re losing your touch!” another called.  
  
“Wasn’t he good last night?” a third chided. “I heard he wouldn’t ‘put out’ for you!”  
  
Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar glared at the third guard, his anger peaking further.  
  
“Don’t worry, Lidovar. We’ll help you!” the first one laughed as he and the two other guards grabbed Kuryakin and wrestled him to the ground. The guard looked up and laughed. “We could even hold him down while you stick it up his ass!”  
  
Kuryakin was rolled face down in the snow. One of the guards stamped a boot down between his shoulders to secure him on the ground. From the corner of his eye, Illya saw Lidovar quickly approaching with the shovel raised, ready to strike.  
  
Lidovar released some of his pent-up frustration on Kuryakin, hitting him with the shovel and kicking his stilled body with a vengeance.  
  
Illya covered his head with his arms the best he could to protect himself. The heavy coat and layers beneath offered some cushioning from the blows, but they were painful nevertheless.  
  
The guard eventually lifted his boot.  
  
Lidovar picked Illya up and glared into his eyes. SIlently, he handed him the shovel and pushed him towards the other prisoners.

  
* * * * *

  
At first, Illya shivered with the cold, wet, melted show seeping beneath his scarf and hat. But after shoveling snow for a short period of time, his body temperature rose and a feeling of warmth flushed from within.  
  
Not much time passed before his stomach began to growl, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. He could feel his strength waning. The first time he slowed his pace to conserve energy, Lidovar approached and barked a warning. By late morning, his tempo slackened again.  
  
“You don’t eat unless you work!” Lidovar hissed.  
  
“I’m working,” Illya retorted, glaring at the functionary.  
  
“Not hard enough. You’re too slow.”  
  
“I’m hungry.”  
  
“And you’ll be hungrier unless you pick up the pace.”  
  
Illya knew that Lidovar had complete control of his food. Using his better judgment, the agent forced himself work more quickly, still not sure whether or not Lidovar would give him his meager midday meal.  
  


  
  
At 12:15, the prisoners were ushered into a small dining hall. Leonid and his two functionary underlings stood behind a short table distributing portions of watery fish soup and bread to the occupants of Cottage 12.  
  
Illya took his food and looked around for a place to sit. Groups of men who had obviously formed cliques gathered at sections of the tables by themselves, involved in their own quiet conversations. An occasional head would tilt his way, as if they were talking about him.  
  
He scanned the prisoners’ faces for anyone who looked remotely familiar, hoping to find other “repatriated” Russians among them.  
  
One small, pale man with thick glasses sat by himself. The man seemed out of place among the other prisoners. Obviously, he was unaccustomed to hard, rigorous labor. His hands were still toughening with new calluses; the broken fingernails and cracked cuticles bore the look of someone who had been an academic in better times.  
  
He seemed to be about 50 years old, graying and ashen. He didn’t look well, and perhaps he was younger than he appeared. When Illya walked towards where he sat, the man turned his eyes away, hoping Kuryakin would choose not to sit with him.  
  
“May I?” Illya asked quietly.  
  
The man looked up, surprised by Illya’s civility. He nodded, then lowered his eyes again.  
  
“My name is Illya Nickovich Kuryakin, but Colonel Kigaroff christened me Yvegney Petrovich Gronski,” Kuryakin smiled as he extended his hand to the man.  
  
The man ignored the gesture and continued eating.  
  
He finally said: “I am Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner.”  
  
“ ** _Dr._** Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner?...The biophysicist doing studies on the depletion of the ozone layer?” Illya asked, taking a large sip of his lukewarm soup.  
  
Lehner looked up, incredulous that anyone at all knew who he was in his previous existence. Nervously, he looked around.  
  
“Who are you? How did you know that about me?”  
  
“I’ve been following your studies for quite some time. You’ve done extensive research in the field,” Illya replied, smiling. “I’m glad to have finally met you, although I would have preferred a café in Paris.”  
  
“All that is behind me now.” Lehner closed his eyes, still not resigned with his incarceration.  
  
“How many others are here?” Illya asked quietly.  
  
Lehner knew what he was referring to. “There were eight of us.”  
  
“Were?”  
  
“Two have committed suicide, and five more were executed.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“Suicide and executions are common in Kolyma. Word gets around. Lidovar makes it a point to tell me whenever another ‘defector’ has taken his life,” Lehner sighed, looking downwards again.  
  
“How do you know about the executions?”  
  
“You can’t miss them marching the prisoner out the front gates. Then, you hear the gunshots. Colonel Kigaroff oversees all executions, but for us defectors, General Rosinov joins him. Each time he’s been here, one more of ‘us’ leaves and never returns.”  
  
“I guess we’re the last, eh?” Illya chuckled, toasting his table mate with his soup bowl.  
  
“ ** _We’re?_** ” Vladimir Alexandrovich asked, his eyebrows raised.  
  
“I was kidnapped from the States about a week ago,” confided Illya.  
  
“What is your field of study?”  
  
“I have a doctorate in quantum physics.”  
  
“Impressive. DId your work pose any threat to the Russian government?”  
  
Illya smiled slightly. “On occasion, yes. I worked for UNCLE.”  
  
This time, Kuryakin looked around to see if anyone was watching. “You’re the only person who knows this. I’d like to keep it that way.”  
  
Lehner nodded, and for the first time, smiled a little. He extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Illya Nickovich.”  
  


With a little food in his belly and a slight rest, Illya had renewed energy to finish shoveling the snow. Before leaving, he asked where the bathrooms were located. Vladimir told him that there were several stations of outdoor toilets, one located on the western end of the camp near their cottage and where they worked.  
  
“You’ve only got about three minutes. Once we go back to work, you practically have to beg to use a toilet.”  
  


* * * * *

  
The temperature mid-day rose to 5 degrees Fahrenheit, the warmest it would be throughout the day. Fortunately, the wind was relatively still and no snow was falling. The sky was clear; the sun shone brightly, warming the prisoners a little more.  
  
Illya covertly observed the rhythms and patterns of the labor camp.  
  
He estimated the prison population to be about 150 men. Their work stations were dispersed throughout the compound, using groups from each cottage to clear the grounds. Although he resided in Cottage 12, Illya didn’t see 11 other “cottages” on the premises. Only five residences stood in addition to the main building and two dining halls.  
  
Watchtowers had been erected 400 feet apart, joined by 12’ high electrified fencing with barbed wire at the top. Three to four guards manned each tower, back-to-back, viewing every inch of the compound. Illya noticed the latrines were slightly out of view, somewhat hidden by a supply shed.  
  
The guards walked in pairs. Most of them were silent, but several talked quietly while on duty. Each small section of the camp was covered by six sets of guards, walking around constantly and reappearing, as Illya approximated, every 20-30 minutes. Guards were always within eyesight.  
  
Occasionally, one of the guards would step behind the latrines for a quick smoke. Illya could see the slight whisps of smoke rise from where they hid. This particular guard was one of several who wore dark glasses to protect his eyes from the snow’s glare. The guard’s partner would use the toilet, then they would both return on duty together.  
  
Shifts were changed every hour. Guards who patrolled Illya’s section changed venues to patrol the prisoners working outside the gates next. Kuryakin watched as they walked away towards the entrance as new guards came into his section. Twice, the Smoker and his partner went to the latrine area inbetween changes.  
  
Last night’s snowfall dumped an additional 10” of snow in the Kolyma labor camp, all of which was to be removed by the prisoners. The men in Kuryakin’s section shoveled snow into large piles. Front-end loader plows traversed from mound to mound, lifting the snow into the back of pick-up trucks. When they were filled to overflowing, the trucks drove through the front gates and out into the woods to dump the snow, then return for refilling.  
  
Lidovar left Illya alone for the rest of the afternoon. By the end of the day, Kuryakin’s muscles ached from the continual motions of his manual labor. His hands were sore, chafed from the shovel’s handle despite the thick gloves. Supper could not come soon enough.  
  
The work day ended a little before 6. The sky had darkened completely and the temperature dropped dangerously low. Shovels were returned to the supply shed before the prisoners were permitted to eat.  
  
Cottage 12 ate at the smaller dining hall. He saw no other groups come or go from the building; Illya assumed the various cottages ate in shifts, avoiding the joining of the masses.  
  
The food was bland and unsatisifying, but basically enough to keep the prisoners alive. Bread, thin beef soup, a small piece of boiled fish, lukewarm tea. Each was permitted only one serving, although each would have probably sold their souls for a second helping. The only men who finished the remaining food were the functionaries. Lidovar rationed the leftovers, allotting himself a larger portion than his two underlings.  
  
Illya sat with Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner once more. At least they could hold an intelligent conversation together, temporarily forgetting the nature of their situations.  
  
“At the rate we’re going, I foresee the ozone layer being completely destroyed in 50 years,” Vladimir Alexandrovich lamented. “I doubt the general public takes any of my findings seriously.”  
  
“Not to mention the domino effect with a depleted ozone. How many degrees per year do you think the temperature would rise?”  
  
“I’m not completely sure. It will be a slow increase. But eventually, even this frozen wasteland might be habitable.”  
  
Illya tightly wrapped his scarf around his nose and mouth, and buttoned the pea coat on top of it as he walked back to the cottage in the frigid air. He looked up into the nighttime sky. It was crystal clear, showing an array of stars not usually seen. The moon was almost in its 3rd quarter phase, on its way to being full. In another few days, the moon would shine so brightly, the snow would cast an ethereal glow.  
  
Cottage 12 was still cold and damp inside. Kuryakin decided to leave on his sweater and coat, but removed his hat, scarf and gloves to feel less encumbered. He looked about the room, observing the same men who ate together congregated with each other in various corners or bunks in the room. A few sat at the table and talked while two arm wrestled, the winner taking on another man.  
  
Vladimir sat on Illya’s bunk bed, leaning back against the wall while Illya sat cross-legged, facing him. Their conversation was interrupted when the door to Lidovar’s private bedroom opened.  
  
The big man walked out into the main room and looked around, scanning all the prisoners avoiding eye contact with him. The room was deadly silent. Illya could feel the tension level rise as the seconds ticked away. No one wanted to be tonight’s selection.  
  
Even Lehner’s head was turned away, trying to become invisible to the functionary. Illya still had his back to Lidovar, but could catch several of the prisoners’ reactions from the corner of his eye.  
  
“Misha!” Lidovar barked. He turned around and walked to his bedroom door, waiting,  
  
A short, slender, dark-haired man, obviously Misha, slowly stood up and joined him. Young. Very young. His head was lowered, his eyes still downcast. Illya could see him swallow nervously as he walked, unhappy with being the selection. Lidovar opened the door and pushed the unwilling man through.  
  
The room remained silent for many long moments afterwards, as if not to disturb Lidovar with any excess noise coming through the thin partitions. What began to resonate through the walls was the sounds of low grunts and stifled sobs along with the creaking of mattress springs.  
  
Illya stood up and started walking over to Lidovar’s door. Vladimir tried to stop him.  
  
“That will only give him more of a reason to beat you,” he said quietly.  
  
“He must be stopped!” Illya whispered back, continuing towards the door.  
  
“You’re right. But now is not the time,” Vladimir said. “He’ll be done soon. Once he’s finished, we’re safe for a while.”  
  
“Has he raped all of you?”  
  
Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner became silent, looking downward in humiliation.  
  
“And no one stands up to him?” Kuryakin asked. “There are 27 of us, and one of him. Why haven’t you tried it en masse?”  
  
Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner just shook his head.  
  
Illya realized the entire population of Cottage 12 was terrified of Lidovar and afraid to stand up to him. He looked around once more, observing how silent everyone remained, practically frozen in fear. The sounds of Lidovar’s assault still floated through the walls, angering Kuryakin further.  
  
Ignoring Vladimir’s advice, Illya kicked open Lidovar’s door. Leonid was just rolling away from Misha, obviously finished. The young Misha was beneath the blanket, softly sobbing.  
  
“What the hell do you want?” Leonid sneered.  
  
The UNCLE agent balled his fist and punched Lidovar in the face again, reopening last night’s split lip. He picked up Lidovar’s club conveniently propped up by the door, and began striking him.  
  
“You bastard!” Illya seethed, striking out in anger again.  
  
One of the other aparatchiks summoned the guards. They stormed in seconds later and grabbed Illya, removing the club and pulling him away from Lidovar.  
  
“He’s the one you should be grabbing!” Kuryakin shouted as he was dragged from the room. He wriggled out of their grips. “He just raped Misha.”  
  
Illya’s remarks fell on deaf ears. The guards took control of him once more and held him firmly until Colonel Ivan Kigaroff arrived.  
  
“You just don’t learn, do you, Gronski?” the colonel bellowed as he struck Illya across the face.  
  
“You know exactly what Lidovar is doing to these men!” Kuryakin snarled. “Why don’t you do anything about it?”  
  
Kigaroff snickered. “This **is** a labor camp, you realize. A prison. I personally don’t care what my functionaries have to do to keep order in their cottages.”  
  
Illya struggled against the guards’ strong grips. “That means letting him rape everyone in his charge?”  
  
“Whatever,” Kigaroff sighed, balling his fists. The colonel punched Illya under the ribs with one hand, then the other. “Release him!”  
  
The guards let Illya go. Immediately, the blond agent wrapped his arms around his middle and bent over to ease the pain in his chest.  
  
Colonel Kigaroff charged at him, striking his already battered body. Once the agent was downed, the officer unbuttoned Illya’s coat and removed it, then pulled the layers of sweaters and shirt up over his head, but not removing them completely. With his head covered, Kigaroff’s guards brought him to his feet and dragged him to the table.  
  
Illya felt the edge of the table press against his abdomen before his head and upper body were forced prone across the table top. The rough, cold surface dug into his ribcage. He tried pulling himself free, but the guards had too tight a grip on him. With his head beneath the layers of clothing, he was unable to see the blows he was about to receive.  
  
The sharp cracks of a belt being beaten into his hide forced Illya’s body to buck and writhe with each blow. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps hurrying near, then after a moment’s pause and a short exchange of words, the beating continued, more intense than before.  
  
Finally, it stopped. Once the guards released him, Illya’s knees turned to jelly and refused to support him. His torso slid off the table as he crumpled to the floor. He pulled down his clothing to cover his bruised and bleeding back, gasping in short huffs from the pain. He watched Colonel Kigaroff and his henchmen leave.  
  
Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar was standing over him, grinning. The big man shook his head and returned to his bedroom. Illya remained on the floor, aching from the beating and humiliated at being the subject of this public display.  
  
Nobody else in the room moved or said a word. Illya gripped the table top and began maneuvering to his feet.  
  
Misha silently walked out of Lidovar’s private room, closing the door behind him. He came over to Illya and offered him a hand getting up. The agent nodded and grasped Misha’s wrist.  
  
“I appreciate what you did for me,” Misha whispered as he helped Illya into his bunk.  
  
Kuryakin nodded and laid down without a word. He turned on to his side, bringing his knees to his chest. Misha unlaced and took off the agent’s boots before covering him with the pea coat and blanket.  
  
Illya broke out in a cold sweat, making him shiver more despite the layers which covered him. His eyes shut tightly as the waves of pain surged through him.  
  
To help distract his pain, Illya forced himself to go over the details of his capture in Wisconsin. He debated the possibility of Napoleon actually escaping and surviving the blast. If so, his partner would have harangued Alexander Waverly into ordering a rescue. If declined, he would have done it himself, with or without the blessings of their boss. It has been at least a week since he was abducted. Where was Napoleon?  
  
The only other option was that he was really killed in the farmhouse. If that was the case, UNCLE would have assumed he had died in the blast along with his partner. End of the story, case closed. There would have been no indication that he had been taken back to Russia and no one would come looking for him.


	4. Chapter 4

_Illya never heard the door to Cottage 12 open, nor did he hear the footsteps coming towards his bunk. In virtual silence, a hand shook his shoulder. In the darkness, he sensed a familiar person standing close by, waking him.  
  
“Napoleon?”_

The overhead lights switched on. Misha was standing by his bed rousing him before the guards could.  
  
Illya’s heart sank. He was certain Napoleon had come to rescue him, take him away from this miserable existence. Kuryakin nodded to Misha in appreciation, knowing that the guards had absolutely no tolerance for prisoners who would not or could not get out of bed on demand.  
  
Slowly, Illya sat up. His chest and back ached from the night before. He stretched slightly as he tried working out some of the kinks in his sore muscles.  
  
He reached down for his boots, groping the empty spaces below his bunk fruitlessly.  
  
“Damn!” he muttered, looking around suspiciously. The other prisoners were beginning to mill around, ignoring him and everyone else. Misha handed him the boots.  
  
“I kept them safe for you,” the younger man said quietly.  
  
Illya nodded to him again, forcing a slight smile. After the boots were laced, he stood up to start his day.

  
  
* * * * *

  
For the next day and a half Illya observed the rhythms of the trucks and guards, taking mental notes that their routines were consistent. The front end loaders circled the grounds in the same pattern, scooping up the mounds of snow and lifting them into the dumptrucks with an air of regimented punctuality. The guards moved in their same patterns, rotating and returning at the same time each day.  
  
By the end of the second day, he was ready to make his move.  
  
Towards evening, as the sun began to set below the horizon, the final truckloads of snow were being taken beyond the main gate for dumping. Illya found a mound of freshly shoveled snow shrouded in the shadows of oncoming nighttime; it stood at the final pick-up spot. He quickly burrowed himself deep enough within the mound so not to be seen.  
  
With timed precision, the front end loader scooped up the snow and deposited it and Illya Kuryakin in the back of the dumptruck. His next stop would be freedom outside Kolyma’s main gate.  
  
For the span of less than 15 minutes, the agent was buried beneath the snow. He felt the truck come to a halt and then the rumble of gears grinding to lift the flatbed. Soon he and several tons of snow began sliding off the back of the truck. Finally, the truck drove away.  
  
Illya clawed his way to the surface. Fortunately he hadn’t been buried below too much more snow and his escape was relatively easy.  
  
Once freed, he looked around briefly to orient himself. The wooded Taiga area was several hundred feet away and behind him stood the Kolyma Labor Camp. Lights from the watchtowers began illuminating the area surrounding the fence, offering Illya a little visibility.  
  
Snow and sleet began falling heavily, casting eerie halos around the camp’s lights. He made a dash for the woods, stumbling in the deep, unshoveled snow.  
  
Not long after he began running did he hear a commotion from the camp. Loud voices followed by sirens broke the silence. Floodlights were focused on the areas surrounding the fence, the main gate in particular. Beams hit the mounds of dumped snow, then began following the path left during Illya’s escape.  
  
Within the hour, a cold, soggy, UNCLE agent was returned to Kolyma.

  
* * * * *

  
  
Kuryakin looked around at the same, drab cell he had occupied so many times before, musing to himself that he should hang a few pictures on the wall to make it homey. His clothing was saturated from the melted snow, leaving him shivering from the cold. A long time passed before any living soul made the effort to acknowledge his presence.  
  
“Our accommodations don’t meet with your expectations?” Colonel Kigaroff mused as he finally entered the cell. “Had you told the concierge, I’m sure we could have made amends.”  
  
The remarks were met with Illya’s usual silence.  
  
“Your actions are grounds for execution, you realize,” Kigaroff continued. “But I’ll forgo that punishment and merely make your life as miserable as possible.”  
  
Without hesitation, the colonel’s three guards rushed to where Kuryakin was sitting on the floor and brought him to his feet. Kigaroff was face-to-face with him seconds later, grasping the collar of his coat to bring him even closer.  
  
“You’re soaking wet!” Kigaroff said, letting go of the coat.  
  
He patted other parts of Illya’s clothing to see if they were equally soaked, then looked at his guards with mock anger.  
  
“Didn’t any of you even think of getting our guest dry clothing?” the colonel asked. The guards snickered and shook their heads. Kigaroff turned his attention back to the UNCLE agent. “Take off those wet clothes,” he ordered.  
  
Illya realized the futility in not obeying the colonel’s commands. Kigaroff would win in the end regardless of whether or not he resisted, so one layer at a time, the agent removed his outerwear. After disrobing down to his shirt and trousers, the colonel felt the fabric of the remaining clothing and demanded they be removed as well.  
  
“You’ll catch your death of cold,” he told Kuryakin.  
  
Illya removed the last of his clothing and left them lying on the floor in a cold, damp heap.  
  
Kigaroff and his guards wasted no time in punishing him for his attempted escape. They stayed with him for almost an hour, leaving him huddled in a corner as they exited the cell.  
  
He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He quickly looked over his bruised and bleeding body, not sure of how much injury he had truly sustained.  
  
The cold of the concrete walls and floor only added to the numbness which had invaded him. He tried to hold in whatever body heat he could, knowing how useless it was under these conditions. As time passed, the chill increased.  
  
Illya stood on wobbly legs and walked to the pile of damp clothing on the floor. He rummaged through it and dressed himself in the few articles of clothing which were relatively dry. It seemed to help slightly. He returned to his spot on the floor and curled himself up the best he could, once again wrapping his arms around his legs to retain warmth.  
  
A restless sleep overtook him. His thoughts strayed to his last briefing with Alexander Waverly and Napoleon Solo.

_“And then you defected,” Solo nodded, “probably humiliating him in the eyes of his superiors.” The senior agent paused. “You don’t think they’re looking to take you back to Russia as well?”  
  
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Kuryakin muttered.  
  
“Gentlemen, the pattern so far is the abduction of academics. I don’t believe Mr. Kuryakin is one of their targets, so I’m sending both of you to Wisconsin to bring back the Merkinen brothers...”  
  
Alexander Waverly’s voice drifted into the distance, fading away. Like a surrealistic animation, the old man changed and became demonic looking, almost possessed.  
  
Illya turned to his partner. “Do you see what’s happening?”  
  
Napoleon sat passively, unaware of the changes. “If Mr. Waverly says that you’re not a target, Illya, you’re safe.” He made a feeble attempt to sound assuring._

_  
_Kuryakin woke unconvinced of his boss’ innocence and integrity with this affair.

* * * * *

  
  
It was daylight when Illya was finally released from the cell. He was unsure how many days had passed. During his stay, Kigaroff and his guards visited him sporadically, beating him until he teetered on unconsciousness.  
  
The final time, the colonel had one of the guards scoop up all of Kuryakin’s still-wet clothing and take it from the cell. By this point, Illya didn’t care. He ached horribly and could not shake the cold which seemed to now live deep within the marrow of his bones. His lungs began to tighten, rebelling against the chill and dampness endured over the past many hours. He hadn’t eaten since the day he tried to escape, and gave up trying to figure out when that was.  
  
Still in only the few dry articles of clothing on his back and bare feet, Kuryakin was escorted to Cottage 12. The door opened as they approached, and the familiar form of Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar was present to greet him as he entered.  
  
The big Russian sneered as the guards pushed Illya through the threshold, locking the door behind him. He looked at his cold, shaking charge. The icy glare coming from Kuryakin’s pale blue eyes was more intense than the chill in the cottage.  
  
Illya looked at his bed. A pile of clothing was dumped on the thin mattress along with a pair of boots. Without saying a word to Lidovar, Illya turned and walked towards his bunk and felt the clothing - dry. He closed his eyes and sighed silently, thankful that Kigaroff had at least that one shred of decency in him.  
  
A pair of strong hands pulled Kuryakin backwards, holding tightly as the muscles tighten beneath his fingers. The agent’s body immediately tensed, steeling himself for protection.  
  
Lidovar’s hands soon became arms wrapping around Kuryakin, pulling him close, pressing the agent tightly against him. One hand gently caressed the two-week growth of beard along the side of Illya’s face.  
  
“You’re really cold,” the aparatchik said quietly in Illya’s ear, grasping him a little tighter. “I can alleviate that for you.”  
  
Illya closed his eyes, genuinely torn between allowing this man to warm him, perhaps even letting him sleep a little, and whoring himself in the process. He was tired. So tired and cold and in pain he was almost tempted to succumb to Lidovar’s advances...  
  
Until he felt the big man’s hands roving under his shirt and smelled the rancid breath as Lidovar spoke.  
  
Kuryakin jolted back to reality as the painful flesh on his chest throbbed under Lidovar’s less than gentle touch. He began prying the functionary’s arms off him.  
  
Lidovar laughed harshly as his prisoner tried freeing himself. While his arms were still encircling Illya, he lifted him off the floor and carried him into his private room and physically tossed him on the bed.  
  
Upon coming into contact with the mattress, Illya rolled to the far end of the bed, out of Leonid’s immediate reach, then stumbled to his feet and backed away.  
  
“Give this up already, will you?” Illya rasped, trying to regain his breath despite the tight lungs. “You’re really not my type.”  
  
Lidovar ignored him and kept advancing, closing the distance Illya kept between them.  
  
“You can even lie and tell your friends I fell under your captivating spell...,” Illya bargained as Leonid lunged at him. The agent side stepped, averting contact.  
  
“Make up a good story if you want...”  
  
Another lunge, another side step.  
  
“I’ll even corroborate, if it will make you feel better...”  
  
Lidovar was furious at this point. He rushed Kuryakin, gaining a handful of cloth from the prison shirt. That was all he needed to reel in his catch. Once he literally got his hands on Illya, he was all over the agent, hitting, clawing, groping whatever he could.  
  
The big man’s hands reawakened the painful welts and bruises on Illya’s body as he tried subduing his prisoner. Illya lacked the strength to put up a good fight, so he focused on avoiding additional injury by freeing himself from Lidovar’s strongholds.  
  
As Kuryakin would wriggle free, Lidovar would grab hold again, pulling him back and continuing their struggle.  
  
Eventually, Leonid’s strength won out and he pinned Illya face down on the floor. The UNCLE agent lay beneath him, breathing in short gasps and coughing from the strain on his lungs.  
  
Once the struggling stopped, Lidovar stood slowly, still holding on to his quarry as he rose. He dragged Illya to his feet and pressed his chest against Kuryakin’s back, wrapping his big arms around him once more.  
  
Illya struck without warning. He snapped back his head, smashing it directly in to Leonid’s nose. First came the dull “crack” of a bone breaking, then came the piercing howl of a man in pain. Lidovar released his grip upon contact, freeing Illya.  
  
Blood poured from the aparatchik’s nostrils. He groped for something to absorb the blood, muttering obscenities and cursing Illya profusely.  
  
“I told you to keep your hands off me!” Illya hissed at him. “Next time you try this, I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”  
  
Illya left the bedroom and dressed as quickly as possible, hoping to leave before Lidovar regained his bearings and came after him again.  
  
The door to Cottage 12 was locked. He banged on the door with his fist and was surprised when he immediately heard the sound of a key entering a lock, followed by the door opening.  
  
Two guards snickered as he moved past them quickly. They peered inside the cottage, surprised not to find Lidovar on his heels.  
  
“Ay, Leonid! Where are you?” Illya heard one of them call as he walked away.  
  
The guard received no answer, so he went inside. “Are you still in bed? Did he wear you out?”  
  
Moments later, the entire population of Cottage 12 watched as the guards escorted Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar to the main building, holding a bloodied rag to his face.  
  
“I give it 20 minutes,” one of the Cottage 12 prisoners said loudly enough for the others to hear.  
  
“You’re crazy, Salomen!” another responded. “I’d wager 15!”  
  
“You’re both wrong,” one of the guards chided. “I say less than 10!”  
  
Misha walked over to Illya and smiled. “They’re betting on how long it takes Colonel Kigaroff to come after you.”  
  
“I’ll bet on 8!” Illya offered.  
  
Had there been an actual wager, Illya Kuryakin would have won the pot.

  
  
* * * * *

  
  
It became apparent that Colonel Kigaroff took little umberence on the well being of Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar. When confronting Kuryakin about his run-in with the big functionary, the colonel demeanor was barely punitive. In fact, he was still humored by Lidovar’s inability to gain control of the agent.  
  
“This is positively hilarious!” Kigaroff laughed, carrying on his usual soliloquy as Illya sat silently on the floor of his usual prison cell. “You mean to tell me that someone who towers over you and outweighs you by at least 20 kilos can’t overcome you physically?”  
  
Illya watched as the colonel strutted around, virtually talking to himself. _At least my clothing is dry this time,_ he thought to himself. _And they’re still covering my body.  
_  
After the first quarter hour, Illya assumed this would be the extent of his punishment. Judging from Kigaroff’s demeanor and past experience with the his code of discipline, the colonel would once again let him “slide” for this transgression. Under different circumstances, this tirade would have even been amusing.  
  
Kigaroff released Kuryakin shortly before the prisoners’ allotted dinner time. It had been quite a while since Illya had eaten, and the colonel had enough sense to realize that he needed food. The laughing continued as the agent left the cell with two guards.  
  
Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner sat with Illya in the dining hall, joined a few moments later by Misha.  
  
“What on earth did you do to him?” Lehner asked after swallowing his first mouthful of black bread.  
  
“I broke his nose,” Illya said softly, looking at his food with little interest in it.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Misha asked after noticing Illya’s lackluster appearance.  
  
Kuryakin looked up at his two new friends, the back down at his plate. “Pretty awful at the moment.” He picked up the bowl of soup and sniffed it, glad it wasn’t the usual fish broth, then took a few sips.  
  
“You know that if it didn’t start sleeting, you may have actually gotten further away,” Misha said. “The weather got so bad that we were ordered to stop working and went to dinner early. It was then that the functionaries noticed you were missing.” Misha paused to dunk his bread in the soup, then push it in his mouth.  
  
“You broke his nose?” Vladimir continued.  
  
“He wouldn’t take his hands off me.”  
  
“How well we know,” the scientist sighed.  
  
”Kigaroff must have been pissed,” Misha added.  
  
“Not really. He finds this all very amusing. His comedy routine wears thin after a while.”  
  
“You’re not eating, Yvegney,” Vladimir noticed. “Are you ill?”  
  
Illya looked up. “I honestly don’t know what I am at the moment,” he said quietly. He pushed his food towards the other men. “Enjoy.”  
  
Misha pushed it back. “Eat.” He smiled and chuckled. “I learned how to nag really well from my wife.”  
  
“I doubt it would stay down,” Illya said shaking his head.  
  
“Then let it come back up. But at least try to get a little in your stomach,” Misha insisted.  
  
Despite his lack of appetite, Illya knew Misha was right. He pulled the bread and soup back towards himself and managed to down their entire contents.

  
* * * * *

  
  
All Kuryakin wanted was sleep. After several painfully harrowing days and sleepless nights in the holding cell, fatigue smothered him. Even his pain seemed secondary to the overwhelming need for sleep.  
  
Once in his bunk, Illya maneuvered himself into a relatively comfortable position. He curled up and pulled the cover over him, still wearing every stitch of clothing he presently owned. The chill deep inside him seemed unaffected by the layers meant to keep him warm throughout the night, and he shook and shivered long after falling asleep.

_An unexpected visitor rapped on Illya Kuryakin’s apartment door shortly after 9 pm. Although the pattern of the knock was familiar, Illya rarely accepted unscheduled occurrences without suspicion. He reached for his gun before dealing with the visitor.  
  
Through the peep hole he saw the familiar face of his partner. Smiling, Illya unlocked and the door and allowed Napoleon to enter.  
  
“Trusting as ever, I see,” Solo mused as Illya holstered his weapon.  
  
“Keeps us alive,” he returned dryly.  
  
“Here. I brought this for you,” Napoleon continued, handing Illya a brown bag containing what looked like a bottle of liquor.  
  
Vodka.  
  
“You’re always welcome here,” Illya said with a slight smile, waving the bottle above his head.  
  
Illya put down the bottle and walked in the kitchen to grab two glasses. When he returned, both Napoleon Solo and the bottle were gone. He looked at the door. Still locked with the chain attached.  
  
His heart pounded in his chest, leaving him somewhat breathless. Illya sat back down in the chair and picked up the journal he was in the midst of reading.  
  
Napoleon was gone._

Luck was with him tonight. Leonid Lidovar never returned to Cottage 12. The colonel obliged Lidovar’s unseen insecure side and allowed him to spend the night in the infirmary, avoiding the embarrassment of slithering back with black circles under both eyes and a large, swollen nose.  
  
But the functionary did return sharply at 6 am to rouse the prisoners. With renewed vengeance, he made it a point to wake Illya first, dragging him out of his deep slumber and throwing him on the floor.  
  
Disoriented by waking from a deep sleep, Illya lay still on the floor a few seconds while trying to assess what had just happened. This was not his apartment, and a feeling of dismay clouded him when he realized he had been dreaming.  
  
Leonid moved towards Illya quickly and he rolled out of the way. Stiff and sore for the past few days, Illya could not rise with his usual agility.  
  
“Get up!” the big man roared, kicking at Illya’s ribs.  
  
When the agent’s movements were too slow for his liking, Leonid grabbed him by the hair and coat collar and pulled him to his feet. Still maintaining his grip, Lidovar pushed him out of the door ahead of all the prisoners. The cold, damp morning air immediately brought him to his senses.  
  
Illya felt depressed by his dream. Beyond that, he was annoyed with himself for sentimental attachments to things, like his apartment, his partner, his freedom. He tried shaking it off. The present reality reminded him that all this far behind him. Being a realist, Illya shut off the feelings like a faucet.  
  
The day’s work was grueling. The prisoners shoveled the freshly fallen snow like mindless robots, silent and emotionless. Illya’s flesh and muscles still felt the ravages of the beatings, leaving him weaker than usual. He knew he needed to mask his weakness, so he kept a keen eye out for the guards and Lidovar, slowing his pace when he was out of their lines of vision.  
  
His system worked well. Kuryakin made it through the morning without a single authority figure bothering him. Completely exhausted by noon, he was relieved to hear the whistle which summoned the prisoners of Cottage 12 to lunch.  
  
Illya took his food to an empty table and sat down. He rubbed his tired eyes, then flexed his numb, frozen fingers to get the blood circulating in them again. Finally he wrapped his hands around the warm bowl of watery soup.  
  
Lunchtime passed entirely too quickly. Before long, the prisoners were sent back outside to continue their incredibly mindless work.  
  
To alleviate the sheer boredom of continually shoveling mounds of snow, Illya entertained himself by reconstructing his final night in Wisconsin. His last night of freedom. While he worked, he racked his brain trying to remember the details which led up to his “repatriation.” Some of the particulars were becoming fuzzy, distorted.

_Did I pass a key to Napoleon? Yes, I’m certain I pressed it into my partner’s palm before leaving the farmhouse. What happened next? Ah, yes...I returned through the upstairs window to help Napoleon. Then I met with Alexi’s men. And then...that’s it, Napoleon was trying to unlock the handcuffs so I diverted the KGB men’s attention. Was Solo able to free himself? No... I never saw him actually freed. But I did see the blast... Maybe there’s a slim chance…_

Illya’s thoughts were interrupted by Lidovar screaming at him to quicken his pace. He glared at the big aparatchik and continued working, smiling inwardly at his reluctance to lay a hand on him.

  
  
* * * * *

  
  
The next several days droned on as the previous ones did. Illya and the other prisoners continued their mindless work, silent and barely acknowledge the existence of one another until they sat and shared a meal.  
  
Each day, Illya felt a little more of his strength return. Colonel Kigaroff left him alone, as did the other guards and Leonid Lidovar. The agent assumed the word was out to let up on Yvegney Petrovich Gronski.  
  
He was thankful.

The continual pain and stiffness from the beatings still drained him. As did the tightness in his lungs. He recognized the onset of pneumonia. Kuryakin began wheezing, courtesy of the three nights he spent in the interrogation cell after his escape attempt. He hoped this would remedy itself, although deep inside he doubted it would. Daily rations were meager, to say the least, and void any sound nutrition. Even a healthy, well-fed man would eventually need medicine. Of course here, none would be forthcoming.  
  
By the fit of his clothing, Illya knew he had lost a substantial amount of weight since arriving at Kolyma. He assumed by now his face had thinned out and his cheekbones would be more accentuated than usual. Perhaps even dark circles were starting to form under his eyes. His beard was probably growing in scraggly and his hair dirty and unkempt. He was almost thankful there were no mirrors at his disposal.  
  
The pace and routine of the guards’ activities kept his attention. He made mental notes of who went where and when, comparing it to their movements before his escape attempt. Nothing much seemed to change.  
  
Three to four guards still manned each tower, and the guards still walked silently in pairs. Every 20-30 minutes they still made their rounds and they were always within eyesight.  
  
Even the smoker with the dark glasses still stepped behind the latrine for a quick drag while his partner would use the toilet before continuing their duty.  
  
Illya observed that the shifts still changed hourly, noting particular details of the smoker’s pattern. They continued their guard duty immediately following lunch. After two tours around the camp, the smoker and his partner walked out the main gate to monitor the less restrictive inmates who worked off the grounds. Each time he repeatedly stopped behind the latrine for his fix. When they were ready to resume their guard duty, they spoke only a few words between them and walked on silently. After an hour outside the gate, their tour of duty was over. They went their separate ways until the following day.  
  
Illya mentally sized him up, his gait, his demeanor, how he wore his hat, how he wore his scarf. He was heftier than Illya, but about the same height.  
  
The following day, Illya was ready to make his move. About 15 minutes after lunch, he asked to be allowed to use the toilet. Fortunately, Lidovar was still eating, which left Dimitri and Vadim to oversee the prisoners. Dimitri nodded and took took the shovel while Illya walked slowly to the latrines.  
  
He entered and shut the door behind him. The usual foul smell stung his eyes and nostrils. Luckily it was the dead of winter. Illya could only imagine how bad the stench would be in warmer weather.  
  
After a moment, he opened the door slightly and looked about. No one was paying particular attention to the latrine area, so he walked out and slipped around the back, waiting for the smoker.  
  
With KGB precision, the smoker showed up as expected. Before he took the cigarette out of the pack, Illya grabbed him from behind and rendered him unconscious. He removed the guard’s coat and placed it over his own. Perfect fit. Hat, scarf and gloves were removed next, and Illya wore them the same as the guard. The last article to be donned was the dark glasses.  
  
Illya stepped out from behind the latrine and met with the other guard just as he exited the toilet. The guard spoke a few words, Illya nodded and grunted a little, not wanting the guard to hear his voice. So far, his ruse was working. Bundled up in the smoker’s clothing obscured his own appearance sufficiently to fool the other guard.  
  
Their final tour was outside the main gate. They walked side-by-side, keeping vigil on the prisoners. An hour later, the two guards parted. One went back inside the labor camp, the other nonchalantly mulled around a short while then discreetly walked away.


	5. Chapter 5

Illya made it almost as far as Vladivostok, pickpocketing similar looking KGB to keep changing his identity. He hitch-hiked on backroads to Kolyma Road, being picked up by other KGB members and later a few civilians while hiding in plain sight. Nowhere was there a phone to be found. He hoped to make it to Vladivostok so he could contact someone in UNCLE of his whereabouts and get out of this frozen wasteland.  
  
The last leg of his escape was met with KGB roadblock on the outskirts of Vladivostok. Illya was with two young women, civilians, who were kind enough to offer him a ride in their truck. The guards at the roadblock held the occupants of the truck at gunpoint and asked them to get out. Obediently, Illya and the two women did.  
  
“What seems to be the problem?” Illya asked.  
  
“I need to see your identification papers,” one of the KGB guards demanded.  
  
The two women produced theirs, as did Illya.  
  
“What is your name?” the guard asked Illya while examining his papers.  
  
“Sorgi Minovich Dorkin.” Presently, Illya was this particular 28 year old from Kiev.  
  
“Take off your coat!” the guard commanded.  
  
“Is this necessary? It’s really rather cold out,” Illya said, hoping he could reason with the guard. "I'm late getting back to..."  
  
The sound of a rifle’s safety clip being released silenced the agent. Illya unbuttoned his coat, revealing his prisoner’s garb beneath.  
  
“Yvegney Petrovich Gronski, I presume?” the guard with the rifle asked.  
  
Slowly, Illya nodded and held up his hands in surrender.  
  
The guards turned their attention to the two women.  
  
“We had no idea...” one of them gasped, knowing the consequences of aiding a prisoner.  
  
“They have nothing to do with this,” Illya said quietly. “They were merely kind enough to offer me a lift.”  
  
The guards looked each other then motioned for the two women to head on their way. They got back in their truck post haste and drove off.  
  
Once the women were a safe distance away, Illya pivoted in the snow and struck the closest guard with an upper cut, knocking him out. By the time he turned around to subdue the second guard, the barrel of a gun met him squarely between the eyes. Once again, he raised his hands in surrender, only this time, the guard cuffed his hands behind his back before returning the blow which downed his partner.

  
  
* * * * *

  
  
_“Wake up!”_

_Illya refused to move, keeping his eyes closed to obliterate the surroundings of his prison cell._

_“Hurry up! We’ve got to move quickly!”_

_The words were spoken in English. The voice sounded so familiar. Illya opened his eyes slightly to see Napoleon standing close to him._

_“Can you walk?”_

_Illya was at a loss for words. He nodded and shifted his body slightly to sit up._

A booted foot kicked him back down.  
  
“It’s about time you woke up!” Colonel Kigaroff’s harsh voice bellowed.  
  
Illya was sprawled on the cold cell room floor wearing only the thin gray prison shirt and trousers. He scanned the room somewhat dazed, looking for Napoleon. After a few seconds, Illya realized his mind had deceived him again.  
  
“Did you really think you could get away with this?” the colonel growled as he brought the agent to his feet. He tried to manacle Illya’s hands to the wall. Kuryakin pulled free for a brief moment, only to have three guards appear and secure him while Kigaroff finished.  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Colonel Kigaroff took a riding crop from one of his guards and began striking Illya’s legs. After an indeterminate number of hits, he stopped and stood face-to-face with Kuryakin.  
  
“I thought you would have learned your lesson last time!” Kigaroff sneered as he continued with a few more blows.  
  
Illya bared his teeth and grimaced with the pain, but still refused to dignify the colonel’s abuse with the screams he so desperately needed to release. It was getting harder and harder to suppress his outcries.  
  
The colonel left an hour later, leaving Illya once again huddled in a corner, shaking uncontrollably from the pain and cold. Kuryakin assumed this was only the beginning.  
  
Perhaps he should have followed Napoleon Solo’s orders and gotten on the helicopter with the Merkenin brothers. At least one of them would have survived the KGB.

  
  
* * * * *

  
  
Illya Kuryakin obsessed over whether or not Napoleon made it out of the farmhouse alive. Between beatings, he mentally reran the final seconds of their time in Wisconsin over and over again, secretly praying that his partner made it out alive and would rescue him. Deep inside knowing it was not to be.  
  
People began to look like Solo. A guard of Napoleon’s approximate height. Another who had dark hair and eyes. Other prisoners. Truck drivers.  
  
Like before, Illya continued doubting Alexander Waverly’s comments about not being a targeted repatriation. _Why the hell would he lie to me?_ Illya thought, shaking his head. _He had never knowingly sent me into a trap before. What did he have to gain?_ Thoughts of being sent like a sheep to the slaughter angered him. Did the KGB make a deal with the UNCLE chief in exchange for one particular defector?  
  
The damning thoughts were beginning to override all others, leaving the agent with an empty sense of betrayal. Kigaroff was winning again.

* * * * *

  
Kuryakin was returned to Cottage 12 shortly before lights out. Unable to walk on his own volition, two of Kigaroff’s guards dragged him through the portal and deposited him on his bed before walking out and locking the door behind them.  
  
The same vacant stares watched in silence. Illya robotically unlaced his dripping boots and left them under his bed, at this point not really caring if someone pilfered them. He hacked several unproductive coughs attempting to clear his lungs, feeling the pain in his chest and sides stab at him with each try.  
  
The all-too familiar sound of Lidovar’s door opening broke the silence. Illya looked up with squinting reddened eyes and watched as the aparatchik swiftly moved towards him.  
  
“Well look who’s back,” Lidovar sneered, amused by Gronski’s second ill-fated escape attempt. “I guess the colonel wasn’t too thrilled with your latest escapade, was he?”  
  
Illya laid down and turned on to his side, facing the wall and ignoring Leonid. The large functionary grabbed the collar of the agent’s coat only to see Illya clench his teeth and seethe the words: “Don’t touch me.”  
  
Lidovar laughed and released his grip. “You do have a point. If I hurt you more, who will I have to amuse me later?” and got up and walked back to his private room.  
  
Once the tension in the room subsided, Vladimir Alexandrovich stood up with his blanket. His footsteps broke the silence as he walked over to Illya’s bunk.  
  
Vladimir sat on the edge of Illya’s mattress and bent over him to speak quietly.  
  
“I saved you a little bread,” he whispered directly into Illya’s ear.  
  
The agent shook his head slowly but Vladimir refused to give up. The scientist slid himself between Illya and his mattress, placing his back against the wall and Illya’s head on his lap. He wrapped his blanket around the two of them.  
  
Illya did not even try to fend off Vladimir, instead he accepted this man’s gesture of friendship.  
  
“Are you badly hurt?” Vladimir Alexandrovich asked quietly.  
  
“Nothing’s broken, but a few of my internal organs have been rearranged,” Illya responded equally as quiet.  
  
“A lot of pain?”  
  
Illya nodded.  
  
The room blackened. Vladimir stayed on Illya’s bunk, even though he knew it was against the rules to be out of his own after lights out. The scientist dug his hand into his pocket and brought out a chunk of black bread. He picked off a small piece and brought it to Illya’s mouth.  
  
Illya’s had involuntarily jerked backwards when he felt the scratchy crust against his lips. He shook his head again, but Dr. Lehner persisted until Illya ate the small morsel. Then another and another.  
  
“You need sleep,” Vladimir said in a hushed tone. “I presented a paper about three years ago on solar sun flares’ vegetative mutation qualities. I practically put an entire room of scientists to sleep during my presentation. Perhaps you’d like to hear it…?”

  
  
* * * * *

  
Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner was gone when Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar made his usual 6 am wake up call. Illya woke with a start, surprised he had slept at all. He brushed away the black bread crumbs before the aparatchik had a chance to spot them.  
  
Slowly, very slowly, Illya sat up. His mouth was dry, his head and body ached. The room was frigid as usual and he shivered almost uncontrollably as his body continued waking. He laced his boots and made an attempt to stand.  
  
His legs were shaky but supporting him more than anticipated. Vladimir met up with him just before leaving the door.  
  
“Thank you,” Illya said quietly, purposely making no eye contact with Lehner.  
  
Kuryakin found it difficult trudging through last night’s 18” snowfall and knew with certainty that he would be virtually useless shoveling it. His slowed pace kept him behind the others except for Vladimir who helped move him along.  
  
“Who’s Napoleon?” Vladimir asked quietly as they walked.  
  
Illya kept walking but closed his eyes, afraid this might happen. The rare times he talks in his sleep is when he’s either feverish or under the influence of painkillers. He was reluctant to talk, even to his new-found friend. But then he looked around and realized it wouldn’t matter anyway.  
  
“He is...he **was** my partner,” Illya corrected, choking back the sentiment he suddenly felt.  
  
“At UNCLE?”  
  
Illya nodded.  
  
“A close friend?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Tough like you?”  
  
Kuryakin actually smiled a little. “Probably tougher.”  
  
Vladimir chuckled. “I’ll bet he’s not as stubborn as you.”  
  
“No. I win that prize.”  
  
The dining hall was almost as cold as the air outdoors. The prisoners were already eating when Illya and Vladimir finally walked in. They hurriedly got their rations and sat down to eat, but Illya only looked at his, unable to eat any of the weak fish soup or the hard boiled egg sitting before him.  
  
“What else did I say?” Illya finally asked, still looking down at his breakfast.  
  
“You were speaking in English. Something about getting out of a house. You refused to leave.”  
  
Illya could feel tears beginning to well in his eyes. “Anything else?” He blinked them back.  
  
“Not really,” Vladimir explained. “My command of English is not as proficient as yours and you mumbled.” He shook Illya’s shoulder, hoping to snap him back to the present. “Eat. Or I’ll ask Misha to nag you again.”  
  


  
  
Illya felt the gaze of every guard upon him. He assumed the directive from Colonel Kigaroff was to keep a watchful eye on the errant Yvegney Petrovich Gronski, lest he wander away once more. His cottage mates again helped shield him from view as much as possible, knowing damned well that he should be in an infirmary rather than outside shoveling 18” of snow.  
  
Periodically, Lidovar would approach and physically prod him to work faster. Illya went through the motions while in his line of vision, but slowed down dramatically once he was out of sight. Dimitri and Vadim turned a blind eye to his inability to work.  
  
“You’re not doing a hell of a lot today, Gronski,” a threatening voice growled from behind. Colonel Kigaroff grabbed Illya’s coat and turned him around. Pale and lightheaded from the pain, Illya fell unconscious before the colonel had the opportunity to land his first blow.  
  
Kigaroff’s guards automatically moved towards Kuryakin to lift him out of the snow, but they were stopped. “Let him stay there. He’ll wake eventually.”  
  
The colonel and his guards walked about 50 feet away and stopped momentarily. The prisoners saw what appeared to be one of the guards helping Kigaroff to “rethink” his actions. To their surprise, Kigaroff relented and the guards returned to take Illya out of the elements.  
  


  
  
The surroundings were too familiar when Illya opened his eyes. He felt as though it was his second home at this point. Bare concrete walls and floor. A bucket. Period. He didn’t remember being taken to his cell or what precipitated its necessity. He was unaware that the guards did their best to shake as much snow off his clothing before laying him down. He never felt the guards remove his soaked socks and replace them with dry ones. The last think he remembered was Kigaroff’s voice.  
  
Vadim was sitting in the cell with him, cradling a dinner tin between his crossed legs.  
  
“Aah. You finally decide to wake up,” Vadim smiled as he unfurled his long legs to get up.  
  
Vadim was tall, slim, in his mid forties. Long salt-and-pepperish gray hair hung down his slender face. His smile and mannerisms were genuinely friendly, making Illya wonder how the hell he became a functionary. He certainly did not have Leonid’s mean streak, nor was he as curt as Dimitri. Illya had no clue as to why Vadim was in Kolyma at all.  
  
“I kept this warm for you,” he continued as he sat down next to Illya.  
  
Kuryakin tried sitting up, only to find his lungs spasm in response and setting off a fit of coughing. His chest burned with each cough, and Illya couldn’t discern what was worse: the pain from his lungs or the pain from the beating. He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest until both subsided.  
  
The aparatchik took off the lid of the dinner tin.  
  
“You must have some good karma, Yvegney Petrovich,” Vadim said with a slight twinkle in his eye. “I think this is from the officer’s dining hall. It actually has a little meat and rice in it. It even smells good.” He brought the tin under Illya’s nose for a sniff.  
  
Although he doubted he’d keep any of it down, Illya realized he needed to get whatever he could inside him.  
  
Vadim fished in his pocket. “They even gave you a spoon, Gronski.” He fished again. “And a chunk of bread. I think it’s still fresh.”  
  
Illya took a few sips of the soup. Vadim was right. It was far more substantial than the fare served to the prisoners. “Perhaps this is what it tastes like before they water it down for us,” he muttered.  
  
He was able to consume about half the soup and bread before his stomach began to rebel.  
  
“Nauseous?” Vadim asked.  
  
Illya nodded, closing his eyes to will the sensation away. “It’s all yours if you’d like,” Kuryakin offered, pushing the tin and bread towards Vadim.  
  
“No...no. My orders were for you to eat it. Besides, I’ve already had my dinner.”  
  
The agent’s eyes opened. “Dinner? I was out that long?”  
  
“Practically the entire day. I’m actually surprised you remained upright as long as you did.” Vadim moved next to Illya and brought the food back with him. “Try eating a little more.”  
  
Illya only shook his head.  
  
There was a short silence. Illya knew Vadim was dying to ask him a multitude of questions about his imprisonment, who, what, where, when, why... but also understood that some men preferred secrecy surrounding their ticket to Kolyma. Finally, Vadim broke the silence.  
  
“What the hell have you done to make Kigaroff hate you so? You seem like a decent guy. A little quiet, eh, kind of aloof, but you don’t seem like the kind who would end up here. And in Cottage 12.”  
  
Illya forced a little smile. “Bad karma from a previous life, I suppose.”  
  
“I’ve been here eight years, Kigaroff for the past three. He’s never treated any one particular prisoner as badly as you.”  
  
“I must be blessed,” Kuryakin responded flatly. He looked up at Vadim. “And what about yourself. How did you make it as an aparatchik. You seem too pleasant to fill that position.”  
  
“Let’s just say it was an understanding between me and Leonid Lidovar.”  
  
“That ignorant bastard? I didn’t think he had the capacity for an ‘understanding’. How long has he been here?”  
  
“I’m not completely sure. He was here when I came and the legacy of Lidovar is somewhat fuzzy. It’s been rumored that he was married with six or seven children. He treated that woman awful. Literally kept her barefoot and pregnant. When she no longer interested him, he set his sights on a neighbor’s young daughter. He raped that poor girl then killed her when she threatened to tell her parents.”  
  
Illya could feel his heart beat faster, hating Lidovar even more. “So now here’s in Kolyma in charge of Cottage 12, still raping and beating people. And sanctioned by Kigaroff.”  
  
Vadim chuckled. “And I doubt you’re at the top of Lidovar's popularity poll as well. He hates your guts. He’s probably even a little afraid of you.”  
  
Kuryakin sighed and shook his head.  
  
“Why exactly are you here, Yvegney Petrovich?” Vadim finally asked.  
  
“Bad karma from a previous life.”

  
  
* * * * *

  
The colonel himself escorted Vadim and Illya back to Cottage 12 shortly after 7pm. The agent’s legs were still shaky, the pain stabbing through him from rough handling. Several of his guards followed, giving Illya the uncomfortable feeling that they were not merely planning to return him to his bunk.  
  
The room hushed as Illya was pushed through the cottage’s door, followed by Vadim, Kigaroff and the guards. The colonel immediately ordered Illya to remove his clothes.  
  
Illya stared at him blankly for a moment, the message not sinking in.  
  
Colonel Kigaroff met him face-to-face. “I’m going to hurt you a lot worse if I have to remove them myself.”  
  
The agent wished his trembling was less apparent. His heart began pounding in his chest. _Damn!_ _Kigaroff was winning_. The pain he had inflicted in the past several weeks had been so overwhelming, even the fear of being beaten was almost as bad as the act itself.  
  
Kuryakin’s face paled at first, then flushed and reddened with cold and humiliation as he began to undress. The KGB and prisoners alike watched in silence as Kuryakin removed every stitch of clothing he wore, leaving him to stand naked in the frigid air.  
  
He avoided eye contact with the prisoners, feeling their discomfort with this display. Illya heard several stifled gasps as the clothing peeled from his body, displaying injured and reinjured flesh resulting from weeks of abuse. Somehow, he managed to summon enough strength to truly disguise his anguish, infuriating Colonel Kigaroff even more.  
  
A belt was slowly removed from Kigaroff’s trousers and in silence, the colonel began lashing at Yvegney Petrovich Gronski. The pain was immediate, slicing through his damaged body with a white-hot intensity. Illya turned his shoulder in hopes of protecting his chest and belly. Grunts and gasps were the only sounds Kuryakin allowed himself to make, adding still to Kigaroff’s rage.  
  
As Colonel Kigaroff moved in closer, Illya backed away, trying to keep distance between them. All the observers remained frozen in place. Even the guards seemed concerned about the sanity of the colonel’s decision to beat Gronski after having spent over four days punishing him for the second escape attempt.  
  
Kigaroff finally stopped after Illya’s legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor, trying to tuck his body into a safer position.  
  
“You didn’t do one fucking ounce of work today!” the colonel spat. “Let’s hope you do a better job tomorrow.”  
  
Through slitted eyelids, Illya watched the KGB leave Cottage 12, locking the door behind them. From the corner of his eye he saw Lidovar collect his clothing and carry them into his private room. Illya understood why no one came to his assistance.  
  
Blood stained the floor as Illya sat up. He looked around at the prisoners who were still too stunned to move. In the eerie stillness, Kuryakin reached on the bed behind him wildly grasping for a blanket. His hand felt for the woolen cloth, and when he made contact, grabbed it and hurriedly covered himself with it.  
  
Someone, Illya had no idea who, tried helping him up. Without looking at the man, he shook his head and pushed the hand away, staggering to his feet on his own volition. Humiliated beyond belief by Kigaroff, he wanted to retain whatever dignity he still possibly had.  
  
Kuryakin walked the distance to his own bunk without acknowledging the presence of anyone else in the room, eyes forward, shivering and clutching the blanket around him.  
  
Before laying down, he looked at the blanket on his own bed. Quickly debating whether or not to wrap that one around him as well, he realized that one of his cottage mates would be cold tonight without one. Almost robotically, Illya exchanged his own blanket for the one he took before crawling into bed.  
  
In his own bunk, Illya curled up as tightly as he could and tucked the blanket around his feet and head, leaving only the smallest of spaces for air. It made very little difference. The temperature in the cottage was only several degrees warmer than outside, and he knew very well he would probably not survive the night. He shivered violently, trying to swallow his moans.  
  
The lights were turned off moments later. In the darkness, Illya tried calming himself so perhaps he could drift off into sleep. But the pain nagged at him, searing through his flesh and muscles relentlessly. Perhaps the lethargy felt before freezing to death would overcome him in a mercifully short time.  
  
“Move over,” a quiet voice said, pushing the small of his back ever so slightly.  
  
Without thinking, Illya complied and moved closer towards the wall, unsure who exactly was speaking to him.  
  
Something was then placed on top of him, then what felt like another blanket on top of that. Illya could feel someone sliding close behind his back and maneuvering under the new layers.  
  
“Shhh! It’s only me...Vadim,” the quiet voice continued. “You don’t want to freeze to death, do you?”  
  
The warmth began to spread through the thin blanket as Vadim wrapped his arms and legs around him.  
  
“I wish I could take away your pain as well,” Vadim whispered sympathetically as he held Kuryakin in his solid grasp. He could feel the shaking and trembling from the younger man and hoped he could at least afford him a little comfort.  
  
“More bad karma,” Illya shivered.

  
  
* * * * *

  
Throughout the night, Kuryakin drifted in and out of uneasy sleep. Vadim never released his hold, warming the agent the best he could and trying to calm him each time he woke, shivering and gasping with the pain.  
  
By the time Illya heard Lidovar’s door open, icy cold had surrounded his body once more. Vadim, along with his coat and blanket were gone. Illya understood. Despite this proverbial ‘understanding’ between the two functionaries, Vadim was unwilling to push the limits by outwardly disobeying Lidovar.  
  
“You made it through the night!” Lidovar bellowed as he shook Illya. “I thought for sure you’d be frozen stiff!” The aparatchik patted the bed behind Kuryakin, still slightly warm. “Looks like you had company last night.”  
  
Lidovar grabbed the blanket wrapped around Illya’s shoulders and pulled him up and into a sitting position. “Who was it, Gronski?” he growled.  
  
“Unless I missed something along the way, I slept by myself,” Illya responded, coughing with the tightness still invading his lungs.  
  
Leonid looked around. The prisoners were trying to pretend nothing was happening. Dimitri was getting up to hurry the prisoners out the door. Vadim had his back turned, smoothing out the blanket on his bed.  
  
“It was Vadim, wasn’t it?” Lidovar shouted, laughing.  
  
Vadim turned around and looked surprised. “Me? Why would I do that?” and then winked at Lidovar.  
  
Lidovar looked back at Kuryakin, still huddled beneath the blanket, and laughed.  
  
The prisoners of Cottage 12 began filing out the door for breakfast. Illya still had no clothing, and wondered what Lidovar’s plan of attack would be this time. He was the proverbial sitting target, his strength too spent to put up a even a meager fight.  
  
As Illya was about to get up and reclaim his belongings when the door to Lidovar’s room opened again and the big man exited with the clothing. He dumped them on the bed beside the agent and stood back, arms crossed, waiting for Illya to get dressed.  
  
Lidovar’s lecherous stare chilled him even more. Kuryakin kept the blanket around him as much as possible while putting on the two layers of trousers, but he realized that Leonid could probably fantasize through the fabric anyway.  
  
“Have you any idea why Vadim is in Kolyma?” Lidovar asked while Kuryakin slipped the shirt over his head.  
  
“Not a clue,” he answered dryly, pulling a sweater over his shirt.  
  
“He’s a homosexual...or didn’t you realize that?”  
  
Illya stopped dressing and glared at Lidovar, raising an eyebrow. “And how does that make him different from you?”  
  
“Me? I prefer to fuck women,” he said moving a little closer to Illya. “I loved to bury my face in their breasts, feel the soft skin of their bellies and thighs before sticking my prick inside them. But here,” he paused, gesturing to the surrounds of the cottage, “I haven’t that option. So when I feel horny, I get it where I can.”  
  
“Obviously Vadim would be a willing partner. Why do you have to ‘get it’ by rape?”  
  
“Now, now, Gronski. That wouldn’t be any fun, would it?” Lidovar was standing by Illya’s bed, and extended his hand to run it though the agent’s hair. Illya grasped his wrist and glared at him without saying a word, the icy blue eyes simulating fortitude.  
  
It worked. Lidovar withdrew his hand and sneered.  
  
Illya stood up after dressing and started walking to the door with Lidovar. He forced himself to not appear as weak as he really was, and wondered if today would be a repeat of the previous. Lidovar banged his fist on the door for the guards to unlock it, then they trudged out into the early morning snow.  
  
The prisoners were leaving the dining hall as Illya and Leonid approached.  
  
“I guess you missed the boat, eh Gronski?” Lidovar said, shrugging his shoulders. Dimitri and Vadim were getting the prisoners on the grounds to start shoveling.  
  
“Vadim!” Lidovar shouted. “He took too long getting dressed. He’ll have to wait for lunch!” With his comment, Lidovar laughed and walked towards the dining hall to have his own breakfast.  
  
Dimitri kept walking, nastily hurrying the prisoners along. Vadim slowed down and grabbed Illya’s sleeve. They walked closely together and once out of Lidovar’s sight, Illya felt something being pressed into his coat pocket. He discreetly looked inside to see a large chunk of black bread.


	6. Chapter 6

Throughout the following days, Yvegney Petrovich Gronski became a non-entity, blending in the mass of labor camp prisoners. He was appreciative of his cottage mates who quietly and unceremoniously shielded him. Ivan Kigaroff remained unseen and the guards left Illya alone. Leonid Lidovar barked orders occasionally, but in essence made no active attempt to harangue the agent.  
  
It was not for Kuryakin to question their lax attitudes; he merely took advantage of the situation and started healing. His muscles and flesh ached a little less with each day and he could feel a small modicum of his strength returning. The cough, though, persisted, as did his low grade fever.  
  
By the fifth day, Illya was the strongest he’d felt in a while. Despite the current conditions surrounding him, he was amazed he still maintained the ability to recuperate.  
  
Lidovar was obviously tired of being on good behavior and Illya could sense that he was grinding at the bit to cause a disturbance. Throughout the morning he was more prickly than usual, yelling and striking out at many of the prisoners in his charge. He walked around with his club this particular day, using it too often to vent his anger.  
  
Probably under strict orders, he kept clear of Gronski, but made sure the two had eye contact as he bullied other inmates of Cottage 12 with his club. Illya recognized his ploy. The aparatchik hoped to goad Kuryakin into reacting to the abuse, taunting the agent to become the aggressor therefore giving him the authority to override Colonel Kigaroff’s orders.  
  
Illya tried not getting sucked into Leonid’s ploy, tried remaining detached and hoped the functionary would tire of this and stop. He maintained his control until Lidovar approached Vladimir Lehner.  
  
Lidovar kept eye contact with Illya as he started beating the scientist. He didn’t stop after a few strikes, but stayed longer and kept hitting. Kuryakin straightened up, his heart beating furiously as the adrenaline flowed through him. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to end this on the spot.  
  
Then, the big functionary grabbed Vladimir by the collar and forcibly dragged him in the direction of the latrines.  
  
Illya speared his shovel into the snow and walked up to Vadim. “I need to use the toilet,” he said between clenched teeth.  
  
Nonchalantly, Vadim looked at his nonexistent watch and told Illya that he had four minutes.  
  
The sounds of a beating continued as Illya neared the latrine. Before turning the corner of the building, the agent spotted a pair of thick wire-rimmed glasses in the snow. Vladimir’s. He picked up the glasses and ran to where Lidovar was assaulting his friend.  
  
The aparatchik had his hands under Vladimir’s clothing, pressing against his back like he had tried with Kuryakin twice before. The scientist squirmed and quietly begged Lidovar to leave him alone.  
  
“He’s asking nicely,” Kuryakin snapped as he grabbed a handful of Lidovar’s hair and wrapped his other arm around the big man’s neck, prying him off Vladimir.  
  
Lehner slid to the ground, shaking from the incident. Illya tossed his friend the glasses and ordered him to get away. Stumbling to find his feet, Vladimir obeyed and ran back to the work area on shaking legs. Then Kuryakin turned his attention to Lidovar.  
  
“I can screw you just as well as him,” Leonid sneered, shaking free of the agent. He quickly pushed Illya against the latrine, just as he had with Vladimir, and began moving his beefy hands beneath Illya’s clothing.  
  
The agent stood still, allowing Lidovar to get lost in his arousal. Like before, Lidovar turned him around, hoping to lock his lips on to Illya’s.  
  
“You’ve bullied your last victim, Lidovar!” Illya hissed at him just before springing on him with cat-like agility.  
  
The forced knocked Leonid down into the snow where the two men wrestled for control. The surge of adrenaline made up for Illya’s lack of stength, and within seconds, Lidovar’s face was raw and bleeding, reddening the snow.  
  
Almost instantly, the aparatchik regained his composure and reclaimed his control by pinning Illya beneath him. But somehow, the agent mustered the sheer strength to force his body from under the weight of Lidovar and flipped him over.  
  
Lidovar grasped and grappled for his quarry but Illya was faster and more agile, keeping out of the big man’s grip. Kuryakin finally got behind him and placed Lidovar in a head lock.  
  
The functionary struggled in Kuryakin’s hold and made it to his feet with Illya still on his back. Like a giant Goliath, he grunted and howled and swung the agent around, slamming him into the latrine wall.  
  
Stunned but still holding on, Illya found the exact moment to snap Lidovar’s neck. Kuryakin released his grip when he heard Lidovar’s spinal column snap and felt the big man stop on his tracks. Teetering as if deciding which way to fall, Illya helped him along by pushing him into the electrified fence.  
  
Sparks flew and crackles sounded upon Lidovar’s impact, followed by silence and a sickly odor of burning flesh. Seconds later, alarms sounded as the electrified fence was deactivated.  
  
Illya heard guards running and shouting as they looked for the spot where the current in the fence was disturbed. He looked up at the top of the wire. Only 12 feet, and now he could ascend without being fried to a crisp. Without giving it a second thought, Illya grabbed hold of the wire and started climbing.  
  
He was within a foot of the top when the sound of Colonel Kigaroff’s voice, accompanied by the sound of rifles being readied to fire, stopped him.  
  
“Not a good idea, Mr. Gronski,” the colonel warned. “One more inch and my guards will put you out of your misery for good.”  
  
Illya looked down and broke out in a sweat. He could put an end to his incarnation right here and now by simple continuing his ascent. Of course, he would never make it to the top. But at least he would not have to withstand any more of the KGB’s abuse.  
  
Colonel Kigaroff determined that Illya’s momentary pause was pure defiance, so he signaled one of his guards to fire off a warning shot.

Illya froze, holding on to the wire even tighter. A second shot whizzed by his right ear. A third shot tore through the side of his right glove, forcing his hand to release its grip.  
  
The agent fell to the ground and upon impact, was surrounded by guards and an irate Colonel Kigaroff.  
  
“You killed him? You had the gall to kill Leonid Lidovar?” Kigaroff screamed into Illya’s face as the agent nonchalantly removed his glove and rub the side of his right hand. The third bullet did no more than leave a scratch on the flesh.  
  
“He was given adequate warnings,” Illya said to the colonel. “But he was too stupid to heed them. You really should have chosen functionaries with a little more intelligence.”  
  
Infuriated with Kuryakin’s insolence, the colonel personally escorted the agent to his cell and did not leave until several hours later.

  
  
* * * * *

  
  
The inmates of Cottage 12 were surprised when Illya was pushed through the door shortly after they returned from dinner. The colonel and his guards followed and slammed the door shut behind them.  
  
Illya hunched over, clutching his belly. Once he was forced into an upright position, the rest of the prisoners in Cottage 12 had the opportunity to see the swelling and bruising on his face. He grimaced with the pain, the veins on his neck protruding from his anguish.  
  
He looked around wildly, anticipating the colonel’s next course of action. His chest hurt and he struggled to breathe; every inhalation was an effort. Even from beneath the coat the prisoners could see his chest heaving with the short gasps.  
  
Colonel Kigaroff wasted no time in finishing his punishment with Yvegney Petrovich Gronski. Without needing any verbal commands, his guards rushed Illya and while one held him still, another started unbuttoning the pea coat.  
  
Instinctively, Kuryakin was ready to fight back. He stamped his boot into the shin of the guard who held him and once released, threw himself at the one trying to undress him. The agent managed to get in a few good punches before being pulled away and subdued.  
  
Before he knew it, his coat, sweater and shirt were removed, leaving him bare chested in the chilly air. New reddish-about-to-turn purple welts covered his arms, chest, and back, laying testament to the past few hours spent in Kigaroff’s care. A belt began lashing at him, unrelenting even as Illya backed away, arms raised to protect his face.  
  
No one said a word. Not Kigaroff, not his guards, and surely not the prisoners of Cottage 12. The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of the leather striking Illya’s skin and the gasps and grunts it produced.  
  
As soon as Colonel Kigaroff stopped, two of his guards grabbed Illya and dragged him to the table in the center of the room. Illya barely felt himself being lifted up, but knew what was happening when his body made contact with the hard wood.  
  
The colonel was untying the laces to Illya’s right boot while several guards steadied him. Kuryakin bucked and kicked trying to free himself of Kigaroff’s grip.  
  
The guard standing near his head grabbed the agent in a headlock and sat him upright, holding the struggling prisoner against his chest. Illya tried wiggling out of his grasp, but the grip was too strong. He stilled himself, gasping to catch his breath.  
  
A young guard was holding Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar’s club, waiting for the colonel to remove the boot. Kigaroff took and ordered him to hold Kuryakin’s right leg steady. The guard bent Illya’s knee and held firm, keeping the agent’s foot flat on the table.  
  
“I doubt you’ll try escaping again,” the colonel said, grinning sadistically.  
  
He raised his arm to club Kuryakin’s foot. On the downswing, Illya shifted his weight, jerking his body to the left. The young guard’s arm trailed with him and his eyes widened like saucers as club broke the radius bone in his forearm. The scream could be heard outside. He was immediately taken to the infirmary.  
  
Illya struggled to get up and away from the table. Kigaroff had no intention of slackening and struck him once on his chest. Illya heard the snap of his ribs cracking before his brain registered the pain.  
  
Tremors tore through him as he fought not to cry out, not wanting to give Colonel Kigaroff the satisfaction of hearing him scream. His teeth gritted and bared, and when he could finally catch his breath, his chest heaved with uneven gasps.  
  
“Hold him again!” Kigaroff instructed his guards.  
  
Despite trying to avert being held down, the guards finally secured him. The guard nearest to Illya’s head once again sat him upright in a headlock, while two other guards held his legs, the right one bent from the knee like before.  
  
The colonel raised the club and slammed it into Illya’s foot, just above the big toe. Everyone in the room, Illya included, watched. A white light of pain flashed across the agent’s brain but he fought every conscious instinct to cry out. His body spasmed upon impact as he broke out in a sweat.  
  
Illya bucked and groaned as Kigaroff felt the injured area to see how much damage he caused. The colonel shook his head, then nodded to his guards to hold their prisoner once more. The arm raised for a final time, but Illya hardly remained conscious long enough to feel it crash down on his foot again.  
  


  
  
_“I assume you recognize these photographs, gentlemen,” Alexander Waverly began.  
  
“Yes, of course,” Illya said, looking up at his superior. “Gregori Danovich Merkenin, his brother Joseph…”_

_  
“You are correct, Mr. Kuryakin,” Alexander Waverly said. “Russia lost over three dozen of their top scientists, mathematicians, and academics, and now they’re making an aggressive effort to ‘repatriate’ them.”  
  
“I assume that means ‘kidnap’ them, Sir,” Napoleon stated.  
  
“KGB?” Illya asked… “Do we have any idea where the Russians have taken the defectors?”  
  
“Our sources indicate they’ve been sent to labor camps near Kolyma.  
According to our records, a Colonel Ivan Kigaroff.” Mr. Waverly looked at Illya. “I believe Mr. Kuryakin is familiar with him.”  
  
The blond agent cleared his throat quietly. “Yes. He was my mentor.He hand-picked me for the service when I was quite young…”_

_  
“And then you defected,” Solo nodded. The senior agent paused. “You don’t think they’re looking to take you back to Russia as well?”  
  
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Kuryakin muttered.  
  
“Gentlemen, I don’t believe Mr. Kuryakin is one of their targets, so I’m sending both of you to Wisconsin...”  
  
“What?” Napoleon asked angrily, rising to his feet. “Are you out of your mind? Do you realize what the KGB will do if they even suspect Illya is on this case?”  
  
“Nothing at all, Mr. Solo. I have assurances that he is not a target.” Mr. Waverly kept his tone steady and authoritarian, refusing to let Napoleon’s display sway him. “Now please sit down.”  
  
“No! I formally protest this assignment!” Solo continued in a louder voice. “You’re sending him to his death.”  
  
“I’ll be fine, Napoleon,” Illya said quietly. “If Mr. Waverly’s sources claim that I’m not on their hit list, then there should be no problem with my going to Wisconsin.”  
  
Napoleon ignored the Russian. “What kind of deal did ‘they’ make with you, Mr. Waverly? Did you really plan to sacrifice my partner? For what? Who’s behind this?” Solo was red faced, yelling at the top of his lungs. “Is this Ivan Kigaroff’s way of getting back at Illya? One of your top agents for how many scientists in return?”  
  
Just having come to a brilliant deduction, the senior agent raised one forefinger in the air. “Here’s one. Why not hand Illya over to them right here?...save everyone the trouble of going to Wisconsin.”  
  
Before receiving an answer, Napoleon threw down his badge and gun and stormed out of Alexander Waverly’s office.  
  
Before the door closed, Waverly pressed a button under the rim of his desk. His bookcase slid to the side, revealing a small, secretive room from which three men exited.  
  
One of the trio, a balding man sneered. “Illya Nickovich Kuryakin. We finally meet.”  
  
Without hesitation the other two men grabbed Kuryakin from behind and stood him upright.  
  
Illya took advantage of the leverage created by the men who held him and kicked the balding man squarely in the chest, pushing him backwards. Immediately, the blond agent stamped on the instep of the closest captor and pulled himself out of the grasp. The third KGB agent received a kick to the chin.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alexander Waverly sitting passively, watching his agent struggle with the trio. He never flinched or showed any sign of concern when the balding man unholstered his weapon and struck Kuryakin on the side of the head with the gun butt.  
  
Illya was stunned momentarily, unable to maneuver away from the bald man’s two associates. Seconds later, he was subdued and handcuffed.  
  
“All right, comrades, we can leave now,” the balding man announced, bearing a wide grin. “We got what we came for.”  
  
“Napoleon was right, damn it!” Illya hissed at his boss before being hauled out the door. “Why the hell would you do this to me?”  
  
The door shut behind him._

Kuryakin’s eyes were met with muted darkness when they opened, creating an eerie sense of reality between the images running through his mind and returning to consciousness. He closed his eyes and tried remembering what precipitated the haze surrounding him. His brain refused to cooperate, adding to the confusion.  
  
 _Alexander Waverly._ Thoughts of Mr. Waverly started coming to him. Why would his boss betray an agent he personally recruited? ... went to extreme measures to bring him to the US and work under him. _You just sat there and let the KGB take me away._ _Why didn’t Napoleon stay just a few moments longer? Damn!_ Illya knew his partner would have helped him.  
  
The fate of his true reality was cemented when the pain centers in his body began awakening as well. The muscles and skin which contacted his mattress began to ache with an increasing intensity. His right foot throbbed and felt confined, as though it was being pressed into a space too small for its mass.  
  
A small amount of light escaped a partially opened door not far from him. In its wake Illya saw the shadowy figure of someone hovering near.  
  
 _Napoleon?_ the agent wanted to say, but couldn’t get out the words. When the man started speaking in Russian, Illya realized his presumption was wrong.  
  
He tried to move. First his fingers, hands, and arms were flexed ever so slightly, proving they were in working condition. As he moved the toes of his right foot, the throbbing turned into stabs of pain which radiated from the toes up through his ankle.  
  
For the first time he cried out, practically howling with the agony. He didn't care if Kigaroff could hear him. When his lungs had depleted, his body spasmed with the pain deep within his ribcage as he gasped in more air. The dimmed light in the room began to fade to black as the intensity his distress increased.  
  
A cool hand touched his feverish forehead, forestalling unconsciousness.  
  
“Try to stay calm,” a soft voice told him. “You’ll hurt less if you’re still.”  
  
Illya froze in place, wide eyed and shaking. “Vadim?” he finally asked in a weak voice.  
  
“Yes. It’s me,” he answered, stroking Kuryakin’s brow.  
  
“I...d...don’t feel...w...w...well,” Illya stammered. He wrapped his arms around his belly as nausea began to overcome him.  
  
In the dim light, Vadim could see Yvegney’s abdomen contract and his eyes squeeze shut. He fetched a bucket and an old shirt from Lidovar’s private room and placed them in the floor besides Illya’s bed. Seconds after he returned, Illya tried maneuvering into a sitting position to vomit.  
  
Vadim held the prisoner under the arm and gently turned him on his side. He brought the bucket under Illya’s head to catch the vomit.  
  
“Are you finished?” Vadim asked once Illya stopped.  
  
Kuryakin shook his head and a very short while later his stomach erupted again. Vadim felt his body relax slightly once the contents of his stomach had been purged. The aparatchik wiped Illya’s face with the old shirt and helped him lay back down.

In the darkness, the blood in the bucket went undetected.  
  
Vadim stayed awake with Illya throughout the night, trying to keep him calm, holding him while his stomach continued to repel its bloody contents, making sure he was still breathing each time unconsciousness took over.  
  
The following morning’s wake-up call was courtesy of the colonel himself. The entire population of Cottage 12 fully expected Leonid Lidovar to exit from his enclave at precisely 6 am and rouse them in his abrasive manner. But that was now a thing of the past.  
  
“You look pretty damn good for someone who had the crap beaten out of him,” Kigaroff snickered as he neared Illya’s bed.  
  
The agent was pale as a ghost, his pupils dilated as he teetered on shock. He could feel his heart pounding against the walls of his chest and his breathing become more rapid once Kigaroff approached.  
  
His stomach seized again. Vadim recognized the signs and turned Illya on his side like he had done so many times during the night. More bloody vomit emptied into the pail, only this time, the reddish brown color was evident in the light. Illya shut his eyes at the sight and turned his head away, hoping that his injured ribs didn’t pierce his stomach.  
  
“How long has this been going on?” Kigaroff snapped.  
  
“All night,” Vadim answered wearily.  
  
The colonel unbuttoned Illya’s coat and sweater to find a sweat-soaked prison shirt beneath. He lifted the shirt to look at the agent’s chest. Swelling around the ribs on his right side. Slightly distended belly, tender to his heavy touch. Wounds which desperately needed attention. Bruising.  
  
Illya cringed at the colonel’s touch, closing his eyes and baring his teeth as the pain worsened. He felt the nausea rise in his throat and was thankful that Vadim was available to help turn him on his side. Kigaroff stood back as the agent clutched his stomach and side before vomiting again.  
  
“Damn!” the colonel growled at Illya. “You lucked out, Gronski. I doubt you’ll be able to work at all today.” He ordered one of his guards to bring in a shirt from Lidovar's stash and then ordered Vadim to redress Yvegney in the dry garment. The only other directives he gave Vadim was to stay with Kuryakin and keep him from drowning in his own vomit.  
  
Colonel Kigaroff and his men roused the remaining prisoners and ushered them out the door. Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner kept to the back of the group and stopped by Illya’s bunk before leaving.  
  
The scientist’s eyes were red and swollen, he was fidgety and distressed.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Yvegney,” Lehner said as tears fell down his cheeks. “This is all my fault. I...”  
  
Illya grabbed Vladimir’s coat and shook his head. “Lidovar’s fault, not yours,” he rasped.

  
  
* * * * *

  
Illya drifted in and out of uneasy semi-conscious sleep throughout the morning, usually followed by nausea upon wakening. Vadim was always there to help him.  
  
Although his stomach would derive some degree of relief after throwing up, nothing at all helped alleviate the pain in his foot. Periodically Illya would try wiggling his toes to see how bad the damage was, but even the most minute movement would bring back the horrendous pain. Knowing that Kigaroff was nowhere in earshot, Illya allowed himself the luxury of crying out as loud as his ribs and lungs would permit.  
  
At some point during the morning the exterior door opened and one of Kigaroff’s young guards came in. Vadim stood up and talked to him privately, took something from him and then handed him the bucket for emptying. The two seemed relaxed with each other, informal.  
  
Vadim noticed Illya watching as the guard left the room.  
  
“Old friends?” Illya asked weakly.  
  
The functionary stiffened. “What do you mean?”  
  
“The guard seems friendlier than the others,” Illya answered, trying to temper his words.  
  
Vadim sighed and nodded, not realizing his actions would noticed. “His name is Ivor. We've known each other for quite a while," he said softly while turning Illya on his side.  
  
“Thanks, but my stomach feels fine at the moment,” Illya said weakly, trying to avoid the pain of having his body shift.  
  
“Ivor brought you some morphine from the infirmary. It’s probably left over from the Second World War, but I guess it’s better than nothing. I need to inject it in you and this is easier than finding your arm.”  
  
Vadim placed the pre-filled antiquated syringe between his teeth while feeling for the waistband of Illya’s trousers.  
  
“Wait a minute,” Illya said, stopping Vadim. He squinted his eyes, trying to see how much morphine filled the syringe. “How much of that do you plan to give me?”  
  
“All of it, I guess,” Vadim answered, shrugging his shoulders.  
  
“No...please. That’s too much.” Illya could feel his breaths become more rapid, aggravating the pain in his chest. “Use half.”  
  
The door opened again and to Vadim’s relief, it was only Ivor returning with the cleaned out bucket. The last thing either of the prisoners needed was for Kigaroff to intervene at this precise moment.  
  
Vadim injected half the contents of the syringe into Illya’s rump before turning him on his back again.  
  
“You’re not using all of it?” Ivor asked.  
  
“He says it’s too much. Can I hold on to this for later, Ivor?”  
  
The guard began to look nervous. “Just hide it somewhere good. If they find one less needle in the infirmary before I can return it, I’ll end up as your roommate.”  
  
Vadim nodded and walked Ivor to the door, rubbing the guard’s back slightly and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.  
  
Illya slept with relative comfort until mid afternoon when the pain began to return. He felt himself being turned on his side and then the cold air chilling his rump, followed by the jab of a needle. He moaned quietly at the sensations, but soon, he numbed once more and fell back to sleep.  
  
He never felt Colonel Kigaroff’s rough hands or heard the harsh, abrasive voice trying to wake him afterwards. Vadim would later tell him that as the colonel misinterpreted the drugged state for semi-consciousness, rousing Illya only sufficiently for him to once again vomit in the pail. Kigaroff would not return until the following morning.

  
  
* * * * *

  
  
By nighttime, the majority of the morphine had worn off, leaving Illya once again in horrendous pain. He found himself lying on his back and decided not to increase his agony by changing his position. Movement - any movement at all - effected his right foot and ribs. The nausea struck again and Vadim was still nearby when he needed to expel its contents.  
  
The colonel had left a canteen of water, ordering Vadim and Dimitri to get some of it down Gronski’s throat. Dimitri propped up Illya’s head and tried getting him to swallow a few sips of water. The agent slowly shook his head and closed his eyes, knowing that anything he tried putting in his stomach would only come back up within seconds.  
  
Vladimir offered to stay up with Illya that night knowing that Vadim had been awake practically two days straight. Dimitri showed no interest in playing mother hen, but knew it would be his duty had Kigaroff ordered him, so he also appreciated Lehner's offer as well.  
  
Kuryakin shook and trembled, sweating profusely despite the temperature in the frigid room. Vladimir talked to him softly, trying to keep him as calm and quiet as possible.  
  
“You fell asleep soon after I started telling you my theory on solar flares... remember?” Lehner asked, wiping sweat from Illya’s face.  
  
Illya looked up at him with dilated pupils and slowly shook his head.  
  
“Aah, then you must have fallen asleep more quickly than I realized. Shall I tell you my theories again?”  
  
Curtly, Illya nodded. He tried shifting slightly to alleviate some of the pain in his back, only to find himself spasming from bolts of pain in his chest. The agent’s stomach clenched again and this time Vladimir was ready with the bucket.  
  
The agent squeezed his eyes shut bared his teeth, forcing himself to settle down and slow his breathing. Less than a minute later, he stilled himself and began quieting the pain centers.  
  
Vladimir’s soft voice droned on about sun flares and vegetative mutations in a steady monotone. To Illya, the words began to make no sense at all, but he focused on the texture and sameness of the words. It became a distraction to his pain and calmed his sufficiently to doze for short amounts of time. In the darkness he never saw the tears running down Vladimir’s cheeks.


	7. Chapter 7

As promised, Colonel Kigaroff returned precisely at 6 am, the first item on his agenda waking Illya Kuryakin. Vladimir sat wrapped in his blanket on the foot of Illya’s bed, knees to his chest, shaking slightly with the cold. The scientist’s eyes were swollen from crying, accentuated by the dark circles formed by fatigue.  
  
“He’s very ill,” Vladimir said softly to the colonel. “He kept throwing up all night and his cough is much worse than before.” He paused to wipe tears from his eyes. “I think he’s going to die soon. This is all my fault.”  
  
Kigaroff refused to acknowledge Lehner’s comments and motioned for him to leave Illya’s bunk. Vladimir lowered his feet to the floor and silently walked away, still visibly upset.  
  
“The canteen is still full,” Kigaroff grumbled after checking its contents. He turned to Dimitri and Vadim. “I thought I ordered you to make him drink.”  
  
“He couldn’t hold it down,” Dimitri answered. “I tried.”  
  
“Not hard enough, obviously,” the colonel snarled. Kigaroff turned his attention to Illya. “Sit up, Gronski!”  
  
Illya looked at him with blank eyes. It took several seconds for the order to register, but once it did, Kuryakin tried sitting. He winced and moaned quietly as his weight shifted, but was too weak to prop himself up. The agent finally gave in, laying back down breathing wheezy, rattling breaths and shaking with the pain.  
  
“Sit him upright!” Kigaroff ordered his guards.  
  
Ivor the Guard was assisting Colonel Kigaroff this morning. He stepped in first, hoping to be a little gentler on the injured prisoner than his comrades. Illya’s eyes squeezed shut as Ivor began raising his torso, and eventually resorted to grunting loudly when the pain became too intense for silence.  
  
Illya shook and panted to catch his breath once Ivor was done. The colonel sat next to him and grabbed the hair on Kuryakin’s forehead, forcing his head to tilt back slightly. Kigaroff’s fingers pinched the sides of the agent’s jaw and pried open his mouth before pouring a small amount of water into it.  
  
After coughing and sputtering, Illya was resigned to swallowing the liquid or choking on it. The water sat uneasily in his belly, threatening to repel. Kigaroff waited a few minutes before forcing more water into him, satisfied that it would stay down.  
  
“You see...” Kigaroff said turning back to Dimitri. “You didn’t try hard enough.” The colonel rose to leave the cottage but turned back to face his functionaries. “Oh...and Vadim, Dimitri... Gronski works today.”  
  
The room was silent once Colonel Kigaroff left. Slowly, the prisoners began milling around before leaving for breakfast. Vladimir returned to Illya’s bunk and handed him a sweater.  
  
“Here,” Lehner said as he handed the gray sweater to Illya. “I’m not cold. You’re going to need this more than I will.”  
  
Illya shook his head and handed it back to Vladimir.  
  
“Please, I insist...” Lehner said, then whispered “...Illya Nickovich” as he helped his friend into the second sweater.  
  
Vadim slowly brought Illya to his feet and supported the injured man as he gingerly tried placing weight on his right foot. Illya moaned louder than he expected as the pangs increased with the minimal pressure.  
  
“I can't do this,” Illya gasped.  
  
“Try walking on your heel,” Vadim responded softly, still holding Illya up.  
  
Involuntary tears formed in Kuryakin’s eyes and he attempted putting only a little pressure on his right heel. Each agonizing step was worse than the one before as his swollen foot pressed and rubbed inside the boot, crunching the misaligned broken bones against the skin and muscles. After several steps, he shook his head and wanted to lay back down.  
  
“He’s only going to beat you again,” Dimitri warned, showing a little sympathy.  
  
Illya’s chest spasmed. “It can’t be worse than this.”  
  
“Yes it can.”  
  
The rest of the prisoners were already walking to the dining hall. Vadim and Dimitri supported Illya under each of his armpits to bring him outside. Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner never left Cottage 12.  
  
Vladimir stayed behind and unlaced his boots, knotting the two strings together. One end was tied around the 3rd tier bed on his bunk, the other end around his neck. He dropped to his knees and hung himself.

  
  
* * * * *

  
  
The news of Lehner’s suicide spread quickly. The prisoners of Cottage 12 watched as Kigaroff’s guards carried his still body outside and through the main gate, to some unseen, remote part of the woods.  
  
Illya took the news badly, feeling guilty that Vladimir believed he was responsible for Kigaroff’s brutality. He mourned the loss of his friend, on one hand understanding the complete sense of destitution and on the other hand cursing the scientist’s lack of fortitude to simply hold on.  
  
The entire morning Kuryakin hobbled listlessly through the camp, enduring the relentless pain. His shovel became a temporary crutch and did very little for actually removing any snow. Absolutely no one of authority bothered him, turning a blind eye to his inabilities.  
  
His nausea returned with a vengeance, forcing him to double over each time his insides spasmed. Illya finally gave in and approached Vadim.  
  
“I c....can’t do this...anymore,” he rasped with his head lowered, shivering. “Too... m...much... p...p...pain.”  
  
Vadim placed his hands on Kuryakin’s head and pulled him closer, holding him against his chest. He could see that Yvegney Petrovich Gronski was beginning to fall apart. Illya allowed himself the luxury of sobbing while his face was buried in Vadim’s shoulder and continued until Kigaroff’s guards pulled him away.  
  
“He can’t work,” Vadim insisted. “I don’t even understand how he’s managed to stay on his feet this long.”  
  
“That’s not your decision!” one of the guards snapped. “Colonel Kigaroff will be out momentarily.”  
  
As predicted, the colonel was only a few minutes behind his guards. One look in Kuryakin’s glassy, puffy eyes told Kigaroff that the agent needed to get inside. The guards were ordered to remove the prisoner to a cell in the main building.  
  
Numb from the pain and cold and Vladimir’s death, Illya had no recollection how he ended up on the concrete floor of the cell. He wasn’t sure whether or not the cell door opened periodically, and couldn’t remember if even one person came to check on him throughout the day. Perhaps even food came and went without his knowing. Time was irrelevant, inconsequential.  
  
It wasn’t until Dimitri and Vadim squatted down next to him, placing hands as gently as possible on him to get him up, that Kuryakin sensed anything concrete.  
  
“We’re taking you back to Cottage 12,” Dimitri said softly, once again showing a little empathy. “We’ll help you get up.”  
  
The two aparatchiks coordinated their motions to slowly lift Illya, hoping to cause as little distress as possible. He clenched his eyes shut and groaned as his body was disturbed from its stillness. Each sore spot responded harshly with the unwanted movement and brought on more spasms.

  
  
**Five days later**  
  
The sky remained overcast most of the day with a low cloud cover. The air was still and warmer than usual, the proverbial calm before the storm. The inmates at Kolyma could smell snow in the air, realizing it was only a matter of time before the skies would open and deposit an additional foot or more of snow on the already frozen tundra.  
  
Mindlessly, Illya got out of bed that morning, numbly going through the motions of following the prisoners from Cottage 12 to the dining hall for breakfast then outside to shovel snow. He looked at the sky, glad that at least for today, the true ravages of an arctic winter were at bay.  
  
Illya struggled throughout the past several days pretending to do his share of the work. Fortunately, his cottage mates picked up the slack. Each morning, Colonel Kigaroff forced him out of Cottage 12 and demanded Kuryakin remain outside until either he or the guards deemed otherwise. The length of Illya’s workday paralleled his limited increase in endurance. The colonel pushed him much further than the agent could physically tolerate, causing him to collapse into unconsciousness on several occasions.  
  
The pain in Illya’s limbs and back decreased slightly, but the aching ribs were continually aggravated with each shovelful of snow and his broken foot still throbbed incessantly with the continual pressure he was putting upon it. Not once had he taken off the boot to inspect the damage. Too painful. He doubted his foot would even fit back inside the boot if it swelled more. The soreness now ran up his heel and ankle, making it almost impossible to walk.  
  
The tightness in his lungs increased. Breathing was labored and difficult, and the constant urge to cough up the muck within his lungs prevailed. Illya recognized that his pneumonia had worsened. The low grade fever he developed a week ago seemed higher, adding to his discomfort and lethargy.  
  
Food no longer interested him at all. His once voracious appetite diminished to several forced mouthfuls of watery soup, if he could handle that at all before the nausea set in.

  
  
* * * * *

  
  
During the late morning, a hush blanketed the grounds of the labor camp. A KGB official was walking through the grounds. As he moved nearer, Illya recognized him as a General. General Anatoly Rosinov, one of the higher ranking officers in the KGB.  
  
The General stopped periodically to talk to guards as well as prisoners, chatting in what appeared to be a relaxed, informal manner. He shortly conversed with of few prisoners from Cottage 12 before walking over to Vadim. His discussion with the functionary lasted a little longer.  
  
A few minutes into their conversation both sets of eyes focused in Kuryakin before Vadim turned his back to finish talking. The General nodded a few times then looked at the UNCLE agent once more. He patted Vadim on the back before departing company.  
  
Rosinov spoke to a few more prisoners before approaching Illya.  
  
Kuryakin stopped working as the impressive looking General neared.  
  
“What is your name?” he asked.  
  
“Yvegney Petrovich Gronski,” Kuryakin responded quietly, squinting his red eyes from the glaring snow.  
  
“Gronski...Gronski...I don’t recall that name from my last visit. How long have you been here?”  
  
“Four weeks.”  
  
“Are you sure?” The general seemed surprised by the answer.  
  
“Yes.” Kuryakin began coughing, having difficulty stopping once the jag began.  
  
General Rosinov pulled off Kuryakin’s wool cap to get a better look at Gronski’s face. Dirty brownish hair fell across his forehead and below the level of his swollen eyes. Illya shuddered with the cold air attacking his head.  
  
“Why were you sent here?” General Rosinov asked.  
  
“I had the audacity to speak my mind,” Kuryakin responded flatly.  
  
“Hmmm...against the government, I assume.”  
  
“Correct.”  
  
Without a further word spoken, the general handed Illya back his cap and turned to walk away.

  
* * * * *

  
By the position of the setting sun, Illya estimated it would be another 20 minutes until it was too dark to work. 20 minutes more of frigid, unrelenting cold. 20 minutes more until he would once again try to force the evening’s watery soup and bread into his uneasy belly. Only 20 minutes.  
  
Illya’s thoughts were brought back to the present as three of Colonel Kigaroff’s guards quickly approached him. One of them took the shovel and handed it to the nearest prisoner while the other two handcuffed his wrists behind him and brought him to the main building.  
  
Once inside, they stopped at the first office while one of the guards went in, returning only seconds later with a length of duct tape in his hand. He sneered before blindfolding Illya with it.  
  
The route within the main building started out with the same familiar pattern, but about half way through, Illya was led through a series of doorways rather than down the stairs to the holding cells.  
  
The final door opened as they neared.  
  
“Good evening,” the familiar voice of Colonel Kigaroff greeted him.  
  
Illya heard the sounds of at least two people walking towards him.  
  
“This isn’t Illya Kuryakin,” one of the voices commented.  
  
“Aah, but it is,” Kigaroff assured him.  
  
“Impossible!” the second voice added. “He looks nothing like Kuryakin.”  
  
“Look more closely,” the colonel continued, closing the door behind him.  
  


* * * * *

The UNCLE agent had no idea how much time had passed until Kigaroff and his guests simply gave up on him, sending him back to Cottage 12. Illya was so numb that he didn’t realize he was still carrying his coat and sweaters, gloves, scarf and hat until he was shoved inside the cottage, fiercely trembling from the cold.  
  
The colonel had invited Thrush agents to inspect his quarry, hoping that they could come to some financial agreement on what Illya Nickovich Kuryakin was really worth. Kigaroff demanded a large sum while the Thrush men were basically unimpressed with either Kuryakin or the offer for his purchase.  
  
After a lengthy inspection and interrogation, the agents from Thrush declined Kigaroff’s offer, but would be in contact with him at a later time to see if he was willing to renegotiate.  
  
After the door to Cottage 12 slammed behind him, Illya stood silently in the darkness, shaking from the cold. Little by little, the clothing he carried spilled from his grasp and lay on the floor by his feet. His arms dropped to his sides, his legs refusing to walk him to his bunk.  
  
A small bar of light suddenly glowed from under the functionaries’ door. Illya’s head turned slightly when it caught his attention, his eyes opening wider as the door slowly opened. Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar!  
  
A slender person’s frame was silhouetted in the light, walking towards him. The agent’s heart rate relaxed when he remembered that Lidovar was dead and it was Vadim coming towards him.  
  
Vadim walked over quickly, able to see Illya in the glow of light emanating from his door.  
  
“You’re frozen!” Vadim whispered as he began scooping up Kuryakin’s belongings from the floor. “What happened?”  
  
Illya couldn’t find the words to answer him.  
  
Vadim helped him into his semi-private quarters, the room once occupied by Lidovar. Dimitri was shielding his eyes from the light, infuriated that he was awakened at this ridiculous hour.  
  
“Make it quick!” Dimitri growled. “I can’t sleep with this damned light on!”  
  
Vadim ignored the other aparatchik and sat Illya down on his cot. He found an old shirt to use as a towel to dry the agent’s hair. Then he helped Illya back into his outerwear.  
  
Illya sat without speaking a word, too tired and drained to process what had just transpired in the interrogation room. Except for an occasional wince, Kuryakin remained expressionless while being redressed.  
  
“Were you beaten again?” Vadim asked, turning Illya’s face towards his own to make eye contact.  
  
Kuryakin turned his gaze away and nodded. He quietly thanked Vadim for helping him before getting up and limping to his bunk.

  
  
* * * * *

  
Prior to getting out of bed, Illya knew the weather conditions were brutal. Whisps of cold air forced their way through the cracks in the walls, chilling him even beneath the layers of clothing and blanket which made a vain effort to keep him warm. The wind howled and whistled. The sound of sleet rapped against the walls and roof like impatiently tapping fingernails.  
  
As usual, they were roused at 6. Illya debated not getting up and suffering the consequences. It was a toss-up which would be worse - being at the mercy of the elements outdoors or the KGB. Sleep had eluded him the past several nights, leaving him to fade in and out of a painful semi-aware state for hours on end.  
  
He was in no condition stand on his own two feet, and in far less condition to shovel snow in near blizzard conditions for an entire day.  
  
Misha was hovering over him when his eyes finally opened.  
  
“Let me help you up, my friend,” Misha said softly, trying to coax Illya into sitting.  
  
Illya looked up at him blankly and shook his head “no.”  
  
The young Misha wouldn’t accept his refusal and gently placed his arms under Illya’s back, lifting him slightly so he could slide himself beneath the agent. Misha let Illya’s body rest back against him.  
  
“Do you really want to give Kigaroff the satisfaction of seeing you give in?” Misha whispered in his ear.  
  
“The pain...” Illya coughed weakly and gasped, trying to catch his breath. “I can hardly move.” His eyes shut tightly.  
  
Misha held him a little tighter. Kuryakin sank against him, allowing Misha to comfort him.  
  
A cool hand covered his brow. “Your fever seems worse today,” Misha whispered quietly.  
  
Numbly, Illya nodded.  
  
“Are you ready to stand up?” Misha asked a few moments later.  
  
“No,” came the breathless answer.  
  
Misha supported Illya’s weight as he stood, watching Kuryakin’s face pale even more.  
  
Illya shook his head again. “I can’t do this. I can’t put weight on my foot.”  
  
He started to sit down again, but Misha refused to leave him.  
  
Misha and Illya hobbled to the dining hall moments before the food was removed from the serving area. Illya sat while Misha stood in line to get their food.  
  
Dimitri refused to give him the two portions.  
  
“For Chrissake, Dimitri!” Misha hissed at him. “You know one is for Yvegney Petrovich! Stop being such bastard! Even your life has been easier since he killed Lidovar, and you know it!”  
  
The functionary silent nodded and handed Misha portions for two.  
  
Illya slumped in the seat, his flesh on his legs and rear rebelling against the hard wooden bench. Nowhere could he find a comfortable position for his right foot. Lack of sleep. Nausea. Fatigue. Fever. Pain. All were relentless seeking the bounds of his endurance.  
  
“Try to eat something,” Misha said as he sat next to Illya.  
  
Illya nodded and stared at the watery broth. Misha nudged him after what seemed like moments later to bring him back to the present.  
  
With shaky hands, Kuryakin lifted the bowl to his mouth, spilling some of the broth in the process. Misha cupped the bowl with is own hands to steady it, allowing Illya to get some of the soup into his stomach.  
  
After a few sips, Illya pushed the hands away and said he had had enough.  
  
“No, no,” Misha insisted. “You need to eat more.”  
  
“I can’t,” Illya said, shaking his head again.  
  
Moments later the prisoners were ushered outside to work.  
  


  
  
The blizzardly conditions made working outside nearly impossible. Snow and sleet accumulated faster than the prisoners could clear it. The sharp, frigid wind and chill permeated the many layers of winter clothing, leaving all the men shivering.

In a moment of lucidity, Illya found himself amused by one of Napoleon's pithy American sayings. Whenever his partner found himself up against such a situation, he referred to it as "Shoveling shit against the wind."  
  
Mid morning a horse-drawn sleigh made its way through the snow and ice, just outside the 12’ electrified fence. Squinting against the wintry glare, Illya was able to read “Kaminsky Brothers ~ Fur Trappers” in faded red paint on the sleigh’s side. The two horses came to a halt, stamping their hooves and snorting puffs of grayish breaths from their nostrils.  
  
Three heavily dressed men jumped off the sleigh. The only differences Illya observed in the three was that two were clean-shave, and the third had a mustache.  
  
The two clean-shaven men moved to the flatbed and procured what looked like small animal traps, while the third moved further towards the tree line, partially obliterated by the snowfall. Each kept an eye on the prisoners working behind the electrified fence.  
  
“Did we catch anything by the trees?” one of the trappers called in Russian to the man near the tree line.  
  
“No,” the tree line man responded.  
  
Illya discreetly watched the trappers, finding their presence so near the labor camp’s fence unusual. During his entire incarceration, he had not seen one outsider.  
  
The guards inside the camp noticed the trappers as well. The majority kept watch over the prisoners while four advanced towards the front gate to investigate. Illya feigned shoveling while he watched the scene unfold a mere 50 feet away.  
  
The man near the tree line seemed out of place. The other two men were setting traps several feet from the fence’s perimeter, but the third man’s actions seemed unrelated to fur trapping. He stood, then crouched, then stood, keeping his line of vision primarily on the prisoners rather than the traps he was supposedly attending. He even appeared to be speaking to no one within earshot. Finally, he nodded slightly and moved towards the other two men.  
  
The three fur trappers worked rapidly until several guards halted their actions, approaching them with rifles ready to fire. The Kaminsky Brothers' hands went up in surrender, and Illya could hear them explaining their actions, complaining that they had expressed permission to hunt and trap in this sector of Kolyma.  
  
“And by whose permission?” the tallest guard asked.  
  
“General Rosinov,” one of the brothers answered, producing a document which the guards refused to acknowledge.  
  
The guards looked at each other momentarily, then the tall guard smirked. “We’ll see about that!”  
  
Another guard ran back into the compound, returning several minutes with an obviously annoyed General Rosinov.  
  
“I’m in the middle of interrogations. This had better be important!” the general muttered.  
  
The tall guard explained his concerns with the fur trappers working so closely to the labor camp.  
  
“They have my expressed permission to work here,” Rosinov grumbled. “My sister-in-law would not give me a moment’s peace until I agreed.”  
  
The guards stood in awkward silence.  
  
“The trapping here is pretty good,” the general explained. “Not many people have the permission or stamina to work in this area.”  
  
General Rosinov gave each of the trappers, his nephews, a warm hug, lingering slightly longer with the tree line man. After a few words were spoken, he nodded his head before the general walked back towards the compound’s main gate, stopping momentarily when in clear view of Illya and his fellow inmates.  
  
The general’s gaze seemed to settle on Illya.  
  
The agent stood still for the few seconds it took to register the meaning of his visit. The prisoners had overheard the general’s comment about being disrupted from his “interrogations,” and Illya recalled Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner’s comment about Rosinov personally overseeing the executions of the defectors. Illya shut his eyes, hoping the general didn’t recognize his true identity the day before. Perhaps Colonel Kigaroff’s alias would hold.  
  
The Kaminsky brothers boarded their sleigh and left the area.  
  


* * * * *

  
The snow and sleet continued throughout the morning. The prisoners were chilled to the bone by 10.  
  
Illya spent most of his time feigning work, using the shovel primarily to help support his weight. His strength was gone. The cold, damp air attacked his lungs with a vengeance. Whatever air did enter his body rattled and wheezed within his chest despite the scarf to warm his inhalations.  
  
Two brusque guards rushed up to Kuryakin shortly later. Without saying a word, one removed the shovel from his hands and left it impaled in the snow before he and the other guard took Illya away.  
  
Their pace was quicker than Illya could match. Impatiently, they dragged him across the grounds to the main building. The agent didn’t even need to ask why he was being taken away - General Rosinov was conducting his interrogations.  
  
He almost knew the route to the holding cells by rote. The guards roughly escorted him around the familiar corridors and down the same staircases, but this time, he was deposited in a communal cell with eight other men.  
  
Illya was pushed into the small barred room and the door securely locked behind him. His red, swollen eyes scanned the environs of the cell, meeting the gazes of the other prisoners.  
  
Two concrete slabs were to serve as beds. Three men sat on one, two on the other. The remaining prisoners sat on the floor.  
  
Illya’s foot throbbed as he made his initial step to a clearing on the floor. The color must have drained from his face, because several of the men rose to their feet to help him.  
  
“Yvegney Petrovich Gronski?” a middle-aged Latvian inquired.  
  
Illya nodded, his body refusing to stand on its own.  
  
The Latvian brought him to one of the concrete slabs and shoo-ed the other prisoners off.  
  
“Let them stay,” Illya whispered, forcing his lungs to work.  
  
“No. You should be lying down.”  
  
Illya was too tired and weak to refuse the Latvian. After a nod of thanks he let the other prisoner help him on the slab.  
  
“Has the doctor looked at your foot?” one of the other prisoners asked.  
  
“No,” Illya responded quietly. He paused and looked up. “How did you know...?”  
  
“Word spreads pretty quickly around here,” the Latvian explained. “We heard about what you did to Lidovar. You were too soft on him. He deserved worse.”

  
  
* * * * *

  
The sound of the cell door being unlocked and creaking open broke the hushed din of the eight prisoners’ conversations. The room became silent. A guard called the name of “Beral Elanovich,” General Rosinov’s next appointed interrogation. A man in his thirties slowly stood up and went out the door with the guards. After a short while, the remaining prisoners continued their hushed conversations.  
  
Illya shivered uncontrollably. Several hours outside in the snow and sleet left his clothing saturated, adding to the existing chill within the cell. Pain gnawed at him continually. He curled up on the concrete slab and wrapped his arms around his chest. At least he was indoors, out of the frigid elements.  
  
For a second time, the sound of the cell door opening broke the din. The faint scent of fish entered the room along with the guards. Illya lay facing the wall, but knew the guards were handing out bowls of the same watery fish soup he had eaten on a daily basis since entering Kolyma. The smell nauseated him. Even burying his face in one of his sleeves could not obliterate the odor.  
  
A man with a gruff voice grabbed Kuryakin’s upper arm and roughly shook him. “Eat up, Gronski,” he growled. “This may be it for a while.”  
  
Illya looked at him from the corner of his eye and slowly nodded. The guard left his portion of soup and bread on the end of the concrete slab before leaving. It remained untouched.  
  


* * * * *

  
The cells were under constant television surveillance. A connection had been linked from the prison cells to General Rosinov’s office. The general and two of his guards watched and listened to the interactions within the cell.

The Latvian sat down next to Illya a short while later. He removed his coat and placed it over Illya.  
  
“You’re freezing,” he commented, tucking the coat around the agent’s chest and arms.  
  
Illya looked up at the man and silently removed the second coat and handed it back. The Latvian tried insisting again but was once more refused.  
  
“At least eat a little soup,” he said.  
  
The blond agent refused the food as well.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" the Latvian asked.

"No," Illya responded in a raspy voice. "I'll feel better if I just lie still."

The general turned down the volume.  
  
“He’ll be my last interview. About 4 pm,” General Rosinov informed his guards. He looked at his mustached, brown-haired guard first, then the clean-shaven one.  
  
The mustached guard seemed apprehensive, impatient. “He won't last that long...not without help. He’s hanging on by a thread now,” he hissed. “Look at him, will you?” He nodded towards the monitor. “He’s on death’s doorstep.”  
  
“Unfortunately, that’s the way it has to be. It’s out of the question to bring him in earlier.” The general shook his head then took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Do what you need keep he alive.”


	8. Chapter 8

The din within the cell was hushed for a third time when General Rosinov’s two personal guards entered. One carried a small dinner tin with a handle. The other guard, who wore the mustache, came in empty-handed. Both moved directly to where Illya lay.  
  
Kuryakin barely heard them entering and remained unaware of their presence until one of the guards placed a hand on his shoulder. The agent’s shaking was unmistakable through the damp clothing.

Illya next felt a hand across his forehead, resting momentarily on his fevered brow. After a rudimentary temperature check, the guard's fingertips lightly patted him - a rare display of compassion, the agent thought. Afterwards, the guard checked the pulse in Kuryakin's neck, then slid his warm hand under several layers of Illya’s clothing.

Finally, the moustached guard straightened up. He spoke quietly to the other guard before taking the dinner tin from him and giving him a few short commands. The second guard quickly left the cell.

Kuryakin stiffened slightly as the moustached guard sat down beside him.

“I’m giving you a shot of penicillin,” said, speaking directly into Illya’s ear. He removed a small case from the inside pocket of his uniform.  
  
“Why bother?” Illya asked without looking up.  
  
“The general wants to keep you alive a bit longer.”  
  
Kuryakin felt the guard lift the layers of clothing again until he found the waistband of his trousers. He shut his eyes tightly, turning his head further away.  
  
The two pairs of trousers were lowered just enough to find a spot to inject the penicillin. Illya waited for the immediate jab of the needle, but looked up when it took longer than expected. The guard’s brown eyes looked worried, and when he noticed Illya looking at him, he smiled slightly.  
  
Illya squinted at the sight of this man who reminded him of his partner...or was it the trapper near the tree line...or one of the multitude of guards he’d observed since his incarceration. The resemblance was strong. This time, though, he would not succumb to the delusions which tricked him mind so many times before.  
  
The mustached guard finally found a relatively uninjured spot for the injection. He dabbed an alcohol-soaked cottonball on the vial of penicillin as well as another vial, then on Illya’s rump.  
  
Kuryakin shook his head at the absurdity of this guard’s preoccupation with germs, considering the infection already running through his body.  
  
The syringe was filled with a quantity of the contents from both vials, then injected into the swabbed spot on the agent’s buttocks.  
  
“What’s in the second vial?” Kuryakin asked weakly.  
  
The mustached guard didn’t answer, but merely smiled a little and winked. Illya disregarded the response as another delusion.  
  
The remaining seven prisoners watched intently as the KGB guard coaxed Yvegney Petrovich Gronski to sit up. The agent winced and shut his eyes with the pain caused by the movement. His lungs struggled. The guard spoke to him softly, keeping his conversation private from the other prisoners.  
  
Eventually, Illya turned his gaze towards the guard and shook his head. The guard tried unbuttoning the damp coat but met with resistance as Kuryakin held it shut.  
  
“I’m too cold,” Kuryakin said quietly, looking downward. He didn’t want to be beaten again.  
  
Illya clasped it shut, but the guard once again spoke softly and convinced him to take off the damp outerwear.  
  
The second guard returned with a blanket, a dry coat, and another sweater. He felt the sweaters Illya still wore. Only the top one was damp, so he helped the agent remove it before re-dressing him.  
  
Kuryakin realized this treatment made no sense at all and looked at the guards suspiciously when the clean-shaven one handed him the tin and a spoon. He tried unsuccessfully to open the lid, his hands shaking so severely he couldn’t grasp the rim and twist.  
  
The mustached guard held out his hand to help. Illya reddened slightly at his inability to open a simple tin before handing it over. A hearty, fragrant beef soup with barley was returned to him.  
  
Illya poked the contents of the tin with his spoon, suspicious that these seemingly decent guards would imbed shards of glass or metal in the soup. Satisfied it was safe, he brought one shaky spoonful to his mouth.  
  
A warm, thick stock, rich in flavor, floated across his tongue and down his throat. He managed to eat a few more spoonfuls before the nausea returned. The tin was handed back to the clean-shaven guard with a nod of thanks.  
  
An overwhelming exhaustion came over Illya. He laid back down on his left side and cushioned his head with his left arm. One of the guards, the agent wasn't sure which, covered him with the blanket and tucked the edges under his body, trying to seal in as much warmth as possible. The chill had dissipated slightly, as did some of the shivering. Even his pain seemed to have lessened a bit. Illya shut his eyes and drifted off into well-needed sleep.

  
  
* * * * *

General Anatoly Rosinov was in the midst of reading a file when Illya Kuryakin was brought into the interrogation room. The same two guards who came to the cell hours earlier stood nearby, silent and still. The agent barely noticed them, too distracted by his returning pain and mounting fears.  
  
On the desk in front of the general were several files of other prisoners who had just been called in for interrogations, along with a lamp, several pens, a thermal bottle, and his telephone. The KGB official had been conducting the interviews all day. It was now past 4 pm. Illya felt almost fortunate being the last appointment, having just spent the past several hours out of the frigid wintery elements.  
  
The shivering and coughing continued. Even in the relative warmth of the room, Illya was unable to steady himself and stand without shaking. His raw lungs rattled and wheezed, and even after several attempts, his coughs were too weak to clear them. The general never looked up.  
  
Illya moved forward to sit in the chair opposite General Rosinov’s desk, but the KGB official held up his hand so not to be disturbed while he finished reading the file. A spasm sharply sliced through his right foot while he backed away, causing his leg to buckle beneath him. The mustached guard caught him before he fell.  
  
Finally, General Rosinov looked up at his prisoner.  
  
“It appears you’ve had a difficult time with us, Yvegney Petrovich,” he began, piercing Illya with his cold, dark eyes. “Several escape attempts, fights, impersonating an officer, assault ... murder. And these are only the ones Colonel Kigaroff documented.”  
  
Illya stood silently. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he refused to look downward and defiantly stared back at the general.  
  
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” the general asked, raising his eyebrows.  
  
“Would it matter?” Illya asked, shuddering with cold. His voice was deep and raspy.  
  
The general focused on Kuryakin’s face, the red, puffy eyes, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks, the sharpness of his jaw line visible beneath more than four weeks’ growth of beard.  
  
“You’ve been ill?” Rosinov asked.  
  
Illya nodded.  
  
“How long have you had that fever?”  
  
“About two weeks.”  
  
“And the pneumonia?”  
  
“The same.”  
  
“Have you been given any medication?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Remove your coat,” Rosinov ordered. He nodded for one of his guards to take it from him.  
  
Fear swelled inside Kuryakin. He doubted he could withstand another interrogation, another beating. His sore fingers fumbled with the buttons and despite his shaking hands, they finally unfastened.  
  
General Rosinov scrutinized the agent’s appearance, looking him up and down without saying a word. Before him stood a dying man, barely capable of containing his illness and pain, whose stubbornness refused to divulge his true level of distress.  
  
“You’re wearing two sweaters,” he commented, seeing the hem of Illya’s original blue sweater hanging beneath the gray one. “General issue is one per prisoner.”  
  
Illya was reluctant to respond. He closed his eyes with the chill that ran through him. His thin arms wrapped around his chest.  
  
“Did you steal it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Where did you get it?”  
  
Illya glared into General Rosinov’s eyes. “Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner gave it to me before he hung himself.”  
  
“Oh? And why would he choose you for such a valuable gift?”  
  
“We’ll never know, will we,” Kuryakin replied dryly.  
  
“Sit down,” Rosinov ordered.  
  
The coat was handed back to Illya, who slipped his arms through the sleeves of the coat and fastened all the buttons before sitting.  
  
General Rosinov scanned the files again. “Tell me about the incident with Leonid Ivanovich Lidovar.”  
  
“You have it all in front of you. What more do you need from me?” Illya asked coldly.  
  
The only response Rosinov gave was an icy glare.  
  
“He was a brute,” Illya finally said, weakly coughing.  
  
“Lidovar was an aparatchik, a functionary. His job was to maintain control of the prisoners.”  
  
“He maintained control by beating and raping practically everyone in our unit.”  
  
“You included?”  
  
Illya sat silently.  
  
“I asked you a question, Yvegney Petrovich.”  
  
“The first time he laid a hand on me I split his lip. The second time he tried I broke his nose. The third time I killed him. He had adequate warning.”  
  
“And then you tried to escape over the electrified fence. That was your third attempt, yes?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“That was what...a week, eight days ago?”  
  
“Yes.” The blond agent shook as an icy tremor swept through him.  
  
General Rosinov looked through the file again. The silence weighed heavily on Kuryakin, unsure of the purpose or outcome of this “interview” with the general.  
  
“Hmmm. That’s when Colonel Kigaroff broke your foot, in essence hobbling you. I assume that was the last time you tried escaping.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The file folder was closed and placed atop the others on the desk. He reached for his Thermos bottle and poured four glasses of hot tea. General Rosinov looked up at his prisoner.  
  
“Tea, Mr. Gronski?” the general offered.  
  
Illya shook his head. “No...thank you.”  
  
The glass was pushed towards Kuryakin regardless of the refusal, then two more filled glasses were offered to his guards.  
  
“No. I insist,” the general said, edging the glass closer. “It will warm you a bit.”  
  
Illya was again suspicious of accepting the offering, as he was with the guards’ soup earlier. In the matter of seconds he decided the tea was safe. Why would the general go through motions of a pre-execution interview if he merely intended to poison him?  
  
The tea tasted good. Sweet, sweetened with jam, the way he had often prepared it himself. Illya tried remembering the last time something sweet passed over his tongue; he sipped it slowly, relishing the sensation. He finished it in silence and put down the glass. The general poured him another.  
  
“Yvegney Petrovich, what did you do before being sent to Kolyma.”  
  
“Do?” Illya asked innocently, sipping his second glass of the sweet tea. The heat radiating from his glass warmed his hands.  
  
“Were you a farmer? An engineer? A teacher?”  
  
“I assume that was all in my file,” Illya responded, coughing slightly.  
  
“I’d rather hear it from you.”  
  
“The reason I am here is ludicrous, as it is with the majority of men you’ve incarcerated.”  
  
Illya was exhausted, barely maintaining the stamina to sound coherent. The agent put the glass down and silently shut his eyes.  
  
“Oh?” the general asked with raised eyebrows. “Every man here will claim he’s innocent of the charges against him. But humor me. Give me an example anyway.”  
  
The agent paused a few seconds. “Misha Mikalic. Have you any idea why he’s imprisoned here?”  
  
“Misha...Mikalic...” Rosinov furrowed his brows trying to connect with the name. “No, in all honesty, I haven’t a clue.”  
  
“He was on leave from the army to visit his pregnant wife. The night he was scheduled to return to his camp she went into labor. They live five kilometers from the nearest telephone so he stayed to help deliver his son. When he returned to base, his commanding officer arrested him for desertion. No trial. No mercy. He was given a ten-year sentence and hasn’t seen his wife or son since.”  
  
“And how long has Mr. Mikalic been here?”  
  
“About two months. He’s barely 20, General.”  
  
“The military has its rules. He disobeyed them and must accept the consequences.”  
  
Illya coughed weakly. “That’s a crock of shit. Under the circumstances, there should have been some leniency.”  
  
“Impossible. A society needs rules to sustain itself.”  
  
“A society needs a modicum of compassion as well.”  
  
“Well, I can see why you ended up here at Kolyma, Mr. Gronski,” the General continued. He leafed the file again. “There’s a major discrepancy here.” He paused, eyeing Kuryakin. “Your file states that you’re incarceration began approximately five months ago. But others have told me you’ve only been here about a month. You yourself confirmed that for me yesterday.”  
  
“Shoddy filekeeping,” Kuryakin responded flatly.  
  
“And I take it that your real name isn’t Yvegney Petrovich Gronski.” the general resumed. “Rather, it’s Illya Nickovich Kuryakin. You defected from Russia several years ago to work with UNCLE. One of Alexander Waverly’s recruits. From what I gather, your defection caused Ivan Kigaroff a great deal of humiliation, for which he neither forgot nor forgave you.”  
  
Kuryakin’s throat began to close. He could feel the rhythm of his breathing increase, trying to force air into his tight lungs. He looked down at the floor, at a loss for words. His foggy mind began racing - which would be worse in the eyes of the KGB?... a dissident or a defector?  
  
A strange numbness began taking over his body.  
  
“Your partner was one...uh...Napoleon Solo, wasn’t it?” Rosinov continued, looking up from his file. “According to the reports, he was with you in Wisconsin.”  
  
“What is your point?” the agent finally asked, trying to keep his voice steady.  
  
The numbing increased. Illya glanced at the remaining tea in the glass, wondering if he had been drugged after all.  
  
“No point whatsoever. I just wanted clarification.” The general scanned the file again, then closed it. “It appears Colonel Kigaroff is trying to use your presence for financial gain.”  
  
“A true capitalist at heart,” Illya remarked dryly. “I’m surprised he documented that tidbit.”  
  
“The Colonel is not that ignorant. I have my sources. Shrewd man, Kigaroff. He keeps you captive for several weeks, and when you’re no longer any fun to play with, tries to sell you. Who exactly did Thrush send to interrogate you?”  
  
“Marcus Beaudet and Kurt Grous.”  
  
“I assume they weren’t too impressed.”  
  
Illya managed a quiet chuckle. “They considered me damaged merchandise...not worth what Kigaroff was asking.”  
  
General Rosinov stood up. “Well, Beaudet and Grous obviously decided you still have some value. They returned a short while ago to renegotiate. I certainly wouldn’t want to be in your position whether Colonel Kigaroff decides to beat the last breath out of your body or turn you over to Thrush. Consider what I’m about to do a rare humanitarian gesture.” He then ordered the clean-shaven guard to take Illya outside.  
  
The mustached guard remained in the interrogation room. “Let’s get to it,” he remarked before exiting with the general.  
  


  
  
Kigaroff’s guards pushed Illya through the main entrance of the labor camp and into the woods, shoving impatiently against the agent’s halting gait. General Rosinov and his two men followed. No sooner did they leave when Marcus Beaudet and Kurt Grous exited in their truck. The colonel shrugged his shoulders slightly as they drove by.  
  
The snow continued to fall heavily, adding inches to those laying from the morning’s squall. The KGB men trudged through it at a quickened pace; Illya had difficulty keeping up with them. The numbing continued consuming him, mercifully alleviating his some of his pain. His right foot still throbbed, although to a lesser degree.  
  
At this moment in time, Illya realized his physical pain was a moot point. He knew where they were taking him, and it was only a matter of moments before his own life would become a faint memory and none of this would be of any consequence. If nothing else, he would persevere and maintain his stubborn dignity.  
  
In a small clearing, Illya could see a mound of snow along a wide trench. He assumed this was a mass grave... the killing ground where all the executions had taken place. Vladimir Alexandrovich Lehner’s final resting place.

They stopped at the bottom of the mound and Kigaroff ordered Illya to remove his clothing.  
  
The KGB group watched as Kuryakin stripped off several layers of outerwear. His woolen hat first and gloves. His pea coat, followed by one sweater, than the other, leaving him in the thin wool prison shirt. Kigaroff demanded that be removed as well. With shaking fingers, Illya pulled the shirt over his head. His arms immediately wrapped around his chest for warmth.  
  
The numbing began to increase in intensity. Illya assumed the arctic chill was reacting with whatever tainted the tea, because his body felt less and less as the moments ticked on.  
  
Rosinov’s expression appeared impassive as he examined the welts and bruises across Kuryakin’s back and chest in the waning light. Most of the pale skin tightly hugging his ribcage was discolored from the abuse, the rest chafed and red from the frigid air. Through the flesh, the general could see Illya’s heart beating furiously, struggling to keep him alive.  
  
The UNCLE agent looked at his arms, then down at his chest. He hadn’t seen his own body in over a week and was visibly upset. Bones protruded from his shoulders, chest and ribs. His arms looked almost skeletal. Again, he calmed when he realized the insignificance. He would soon be executed, and none of this would be of any consequence after they’ve snuffed out his life.  
  
“Take off your boots!” Kigaroff snapped.  
  
Illya looked at him wearily, then bent down to untie the boots. The leather was stiff and frozen and the shoelaces unyielding to his numb fingers. Impatient, Ivan Kigaroff kicked him in the chest, knocking the agent backwards into the show. The KGB colonel bent down and cut the laces with his knife.  
  
One of Rosinov’s guards lifted Kuryakin to his feet.  
  
Illya tried raising his left foot to remove the boot, but his right foot couldn’t support the weight. The same guard caught him before he fell, and wrapped his arms around the bare shoulders and chest and held him up while Colonel Kigaroff approached to remove the boots.  
  
The left boot came off easily. The sock was next, leaving Illya’s bare foot to sink into the deep snow. The grip of the guard who held him up tightened slightly as his right boot was about to removed. Illya thought he heard a quiet voice saying “Shhh!” close to his ear. He turned his head slightly only to see the mustached guard and dismissed it as the sound of the wind blowing around him.  
  
His fingers tried prying away the arms which secured him. Kuryakin wrapped one numb hand around his captor’s thumb and rotated it back, causing the guard to release him slightly. The guard's hand slipped away and the grip tightened even more. Before the right boot was removed, Illya made a last attempt to free himself from the strong grasp by smashing the back of his skull into the guard’s face.  
  
But the guard, the same mustached man who he’d seen throughout the day, anticipated his movements and managed to grasp his jaw in a gloved hand, forcing Illya’s head to lie back against his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya could see the guard scowling angrily, but the words coming out his mouth seemed quiet and gentle, telling him to “hold on a little longer.” Illya was certain his mind had totally snapped and wrestled against his captor. And again, he though he heard the voice quietly trying to settle him down.  
  
Kuryakin closed his eyes tightly and bared his teeth as the right boot was slowly pulled off his foot. Kigaroff took pleasure in prolonging the distress and purposely took his time. Illya threw his head back, writhing from the perceived pain within the strong hold of the guard who held him still. Mercifully, the agent felt very little.  
  
A swollen purplish and black foot emerged once the sock was removed. In the dim light it looked riddled with gangrene. GIngerly, Illya lowered in the snow.  
  
Colonel Kigaroff stood face to face with Illya. “I feel cheated,” he sneered.  
  
The agent glowered at him, not even resisting the temptation for a little smirk to curl one corner of his lip. He knew what Kigaroff was referring to. Not once did he give the colonel the satisfaction of hearing him scream for mercy.  
  
“But in the end, I win.” The colonel walked a few steps away and turned around. “I want the trousers, too!” he barked.  
  
The guard holding up Illya maintained his grip while one of Kigaroff’s guards removed the heavy woolen trousers. The agent did not even try struggling this time and out of sheer exhaustion, allowed the mustached guard support his entire weight. At least he could absorb a little warmth from the guard’s coat  
  
The tattered pair of thin gray prison trousers were beneath the warmer brown ones, doing little to disguise the significant swelling which ran all the way up to Kuryakin’s right knee. Kigaroff’s henchman began removing them as well.  
  
“Let them stay,” Kigaroff said. “They’re ready for the dustbin anyway.”  
  
General Rosinov handcuffed Kuryakin’s wrists behind his back then motioned for him to be taken to the ridge above the mass grave.

The agent could not manage the climb. Before Kigaroff could intervene, the mustached guard grabbed Illya again and practically carried him to the top of the trench.  
  
The last moments of the waning daylight streaked across the sky. The density of the woods filtered out much of its luminescence, creating eerie silhouettes of arboreal giants against a wintry sky.  
  
Illya stood calf-deep in freshly fallen snow, too numb to shiver despite the frigid chill which filtered into every bone in his body. His bare feet no longer registered any sensations from the frozen earth beneath him. The pale face, now ashen, looked remarkably calm. Numbness had taken over completely.  
  
Illya Kuryakin looked down into the mass grave, fixating on the still, frozen bodies covered in lye and snow. His destiny. One of the multitude of nameless corpses forever returned to Mother Earth, never to be seen or heard from again, as if they had never existed in the first place.  
  
Not a word was spoken; the silence was unsettling. The KGB officers and guards were there to stand witness to his execution, and they did so expressionlessly. He was a non-entity; no one knew he was there. Ivan Kigaroff ensured Illya’s anonymity when he disavowed any knowledge of Kuryakin’s presence in Russia by assigning him an alias for the records. Only General Rosinov and his guards knew his real identity. All that mattered very little now.  
  
The click of a gun being readied to fire snapped Illya back to the present. General Rosinov’s ungloved hand grasped the back of his neck tightly, so tightly Kuryakin could feel the fingernails digging into his skin. Illya’s shoulders stiffened at the touch.  
  
The Russian agent looked around at the officers and guards. One final look. He silently scanned the faces of his captors. For a brief few seconds, his gaze locked on the mustached KGB guard who had held him up. He did resemble Napoleon Solo. Or did he resemble the fur trapper outside the prison fence? He choked up at the idea that there was never the slightest chance of a rescue, or even seeing his partner again; Illya gave up on that delusion weeks ago.  
  
Dusk was rapidly evolving into darkness. The sky was now turning a deeper, bluish gray. Residual light bounced off the snow, rendering a surrealistic landscape in the deep woods.  
  
“Dosvedonya, Yvegney Petrovich Gronski,” were the last words the General spoke before pulling the trigger.  
  
A flash of light blasted from the gun’s muzzle as the shot rang out behind Illya’s right ear. In the split second it took his brain to register the gunshot, the agent saw a red spray stain the snow around him. Then he succumbed to the inevitable blackness.  
  
Kuryakin’s body pitched forward to join the others in the mass grave, but General Rosinov’s hand stopped the fall and dropped him to the ground at the top of the ditch. The waning heat from the still body melted the snow beneath it, sending up ethereal whisps of steam which dissipated a few feet above. The illusion of a blood-red halo was created by the darkened patch of snow beneath Illya’s head. It was only a matter of time before these last few vestiges of a life would be snuffed out forever.  
  
“What the hell is the problem?” Kigaroff rasped. “It’s freezing out here. Get this over with already!”  
  
Rosinov reached in his pocket for a set of keys. “I want my handcuffs back. He’s not going to need them anymore.”  
  
Kigaroff shook his head in disgust and turned around to leave. He motioned for his his guards to follow, and the entourage disappeared into the darkening night. General Rosinov tossed the keys to his guards and nodded before leaving with Colonel Kigaroff.


	9. Chapter 9

The sensation of a backward, rhythmic rocking motion crept into Illya’s blackness, followed by an incredibly delicious sensation of warmth...radiant warmth which had replaced the bone numbing chill he’d last felt. He was in a cocoon or something like it. Warm, safe, dark, quiet. Arms snug against his body. No pain.

 _My ascent to Heaven? ... No white light_ ...  
 _Too warm for Heaven, I must be on my way to Hell ...  
Payback for denying any existence of a Deity ...  
I guess the Old Man upstairs doesn’t play around..._

  
Silence surrounded him at first. Illya strained to hear anything, then little by little, sounds filtered through his darkness. A quiet, indistinguishable conversation. The even beat of...of...? An occasional muffled snort?  
  
Illya was reluctant to open his eyes, afraid he would be in an afterlife not of his choosing. Or perhaps, this was all merely a delusion and he’d wake up back in the labor camp like so many times before. His current state of limbo was more pleasing so he kept his eyes shut and languished in it.  
  
He was lying on his side. His arms and legs could gradually move a little, but something weighed them down. Illya focused on the rest of himself. Whatever weighed down his limbs covered his entire body.  
  
 _Dirt? Snow?_ Illya moaned almost inaudibly. He became more agitated as his thoughts began awakening.

_Did I survive having my brains blown out?  
Am I still alive and buried beneath the lye and snow?  
Impossible! I saw my own blood stain the snow red._

“Illya! Wake up.”  
  
 _Saint Peter? Lucifer? Kigaroff?_ Illya kept his eyes shut, not wishing to see at whose gate he’d just arrived.  
  
Hands shook him. “Wake up,” the voice repeated. “Open your eyes.”  
  
Reluctantly, Illya forced his eyes to open slightly. A delicate, golden glow flickered softly, enhancing the luxurious warmth surrounding him. He turned on his back, slowly scanned his environs while he tried making sense of it. What looked like a low canvas tent surrounded him. The light bounced off it, giving the area a sense of warmth. Layers of something soft covered him. Fur.  
  
“Illya?” The voice came from his left. No one had addressed him by his real name in quite some time.  
  
Illya turned his head slightly to see who spoke his name. A familiar, gentle face hovered close by. General Rosinov’s guard? The fur trapper? Napoleon?  
  
The dark haired man still spoke.  
  
Illya focused on him suspiciously.  
  
“You know...my...name?” he weakly asked in Russian.  
  
The man removed his hat and moved even closer to Illya.  
  
“Illya, look at me,” he spoke in English.  
  
Kuryakin’s red rimmed eyes slowly scanned the familiar face, then fearing he was again delusional, closed his eyes and turned his head away. Napoleon Solo.  
  
 _Napoleon died in the blast_.  
  
“Illya, please...look at me.”  
  
The blue eyes opened again, looking squarely into the man’s brown eyes.  
  
“Who are you?” Illya asked slowly in Russian.  
  
“Napoleon,” he replied. His hand touched Illya’s face.

_The click of a gun being readied to fire snapped Illya back to the present. General Rosinov’s hand grasped the back of his neck tightly, so tightly Kuryakin could feel the fingernails digging into his skin. Illya’s shoulders stiffened at the touch. In the dim light, no one noticed the ampule between the General‘s fingers. The tip pierced Kuryakin’s skin unnoticed, injecting a knock out drug into his bloodstream.  
  
The General chose this particular time of day for the execution so the waning light of dusk would mask his deception. With the limited visibility, he could effectively simulate Kuryakin’s death.  
  
“Dosvedonya, Yvegney Petrovich Gronski.”  
  
A flash of light blasted from the gun’s muzzle as the shot rang out behind Illya’s right ear. In the split second it took his brain to register the gunshot, the agent saw a red spray stain the snow around him. Then he succumbed to the inevitable blackness.  
  
General Rosinov threw the keys to Napoleon then headed back to the warmth of Colonel Kigaroff’s office. As soon as the KGB party was out of sight, Solo removed his coat and wrapped it around his partner. He and the other guard, Anton Kaminsky, lifted Kuryakin out of the snow and carried him to the waiting sleigh. The driver whispered that they needed to hurry...that he didn’t put it past the KGB a return trip to make sure Kuryakin was dead.  
  
The fur trappers had covered the flatbed with a canvas to keep it dry. Kuryakin was carefully laid down in the back of the sleigh. Anton and Napoleon jumped on the back next to Illya and within seconds, they were on their way.  
  
The moon filtering through the canvas offered Napoleon only a little light while they attended to Illya. He and the trapper hastily removed the wet, wool prison trousers first. The soggy fabric was used to wipe the fake blood off Illya’s face, head and neck, and clean off the injured foot. Anton Kaminsky slid alongside Illya to see just how badly the agent was injured.  
  
“You can light the lantern now,” the driver whispered from his bench.  
  
Napoleon gulped down the lump in his throat when he saw the extent of his partner’s injuries in the soft light. The ill-fed body was badly battered and pale, almost bluish. Wounds and re-opened wounds covered his torso and limbs, making crater-like depressions in the flesh. The skin was cold to the touch. Illya was lying so still, the inhalations shallow and wheezing. His chest rose and fell almost indetectably with each breath, The beard he had grown in the past few weeks aged him, and the unwashed hair was down below his swollen, hollowed eyes.  
  
But there was no time to waste with emotions. Solo rummaged through his medical kit to find syringes containing a strong antibiotic and a painkiller. He injected their contents into Illya’s arm, hoping his partner would live long enough to benefit from their effects. Even General Rosinov voiced his doubts that Kuryakin would make it through the journey alive.  
  
The trapper began muttering under his breath in Russian. Curses. Words Napoleon had heard spewing from his partner’s mouth in the past.  
  
“That fucking animal must have beaten him every day!” he spat, angry with the condition of Kuryakin’s body. He and Napoleon poked and prodded several of the more severe injuries. “These ribs have been broken. Probably the same time Kigaroff broke his foot.” The trapper continued muttering a litany of curses.  
  
“Sounds like you’ve dealt with the Colonel before,” Napoleon stated while cleaning off his partner’s foot the best he could under these diverse conditions.  
  
Anton huffed, then became silent.  
  
Illya needed to be dried off and warmed as quickly as possible. After blotting off as much of the melted snow as he could from his partner’s hair and body, Napoleon unrolled a blanket with two wires attached to a 6 volt lantern battery. The wires ran between two layers of wool, creating a portable warming blanket.  
  
While Napoleon wrapped the blanket around his partner, the trapper felt beneath the pelts of fur and smiled before bringing up a metal foot splint.  
  
“Part of your standard equipment?” Napoleon asked while tucking the blanket around his Illya.  
  
“Courtesy of Kolyma,” Kaminsky replied, smiling. He rummaged through through the sack of extra clothing intended for Illya and found a pair of heavy woolen socks. He dressed the agent’s broken foot in one sock, then the other before placing it in the splint. He felt in the sack again and this time his hands emerged with a scarf. Quickly, efficiently, he used the scarf to secure Kuryakin’s foot in the splint.  
  
When he was done, the trapper smiled, slapped Napoleon on the back and joined his brother on the bench of the sleigh.  
  
Napoleon left only a small opening in the blanket for fresh air. He lay Illya on his left side and bent his partner’s body so it would rest in a relatively natural position. Then laid down next to Kuryakin, wrapping himself around the blanket-covered agent for additional warmth. Several fur covers were pulled on top of them both to seal in as much heat as possible. He tucked Illya’s face against his neck to warm the air entering his lungs and feel the breaths as he exhaled.  
  
Less than an hour later General Rosinov’s knock out drug wore off. Illya remained semi-conscious throughout the night, but shivered uncontrollably once his senses began to return. The blond agent wriggled nearer to the source of the warmth, trying to burrow closer to Napoleon. Solo held his partner a little tighter, quietly assuring him that he was safe. For most of the night the violent shaking continued, subsiding only several hours before he woke.  
  
Napoleon loosened the blankets and dressed Illya quickly as possible once the shivering stopped. The clothes were just ragged enough to befit a fur trapper. Solo quickly slipped his partner into a pair of thermal winter underwear, then dressed him in thick brown wool trousers and a warm tan woven peasant shirt, followed by hand knitted blue sweater and a heavy, black wool coat. Napoleon placed a fur hat on Illya’s head and a scarf around his neck.  
  
Solo checked his partner’s foot. All the “gangrene” seemed to have been washed away. He covered each foot with two thick, dry socks, then laced a boot on Illya’s left foot and returned the splint on his right.  
  
Insulated gloves and warm mittens covered each of Illya’s hands before the blanket was snugly wrapped around him again._

The man in the sleigh spoke to him in English, saying again that he was Napoleon Solo, but Illya’s mind was so intent on gaining a grasp of this skewed reality, he had difficulty discerning the words. While he talked, Illya looked around once more, focusing on the motion he still felt and the other sounds...the sounds...the steady beat of...of... horse hooves. _The fur trappers had horses and a sleigh._

“Impossible.” Illya’s breathing quickened. He felt himself becoming restless. “Napoleon...died.”  
  
Kuryakin paused after hearing himself use the word “died.” In what seemed like moments before, he had been the main event at his own execution.  
  
Confused, Illya brought his right hand up from underneath his blanket. He gazed at the large woolen mitten covering his hand. He placed the top of the mitten between his teeth to remove it, but the man in the sleigh with him reached over and pulled it off. An insulated glove was beneath the mitten; the trapper helped him remove that as well.  
  
The harsh, cold air caused his hand to recoil, feeling as though it had never been warmed. Illya raised his hand to his head and fumbled with sore fingers for the wound which took his life. The dark haired man guided Illya's fingers underneath the fur cap. Kuryakin probed a few seconds more before bring his hand down.  
  
“I’m not dead, Illya, and neither are you,” the man insisted.  
  
The confusion was apparent on Illya’s face. He looked away slightly, trying to process what was happening.  
  
The familiar voice refocused Illya’s attention.  
  
“Thanks to you, I escaped seconds before the explosion in Wisconsin,” the dark haired man smiled as he helped place the glove and mitten back on Illya’s hand. Then he tucked the arm back under the blanket.  
  
“Me?”  
  
He touched Illya’s shoulder. “You pick-pocketed the KGB agent at the farmhouse and gave me the key to the handcuffs. Just before they found you. Do you remember?”  
  
Illya closed his eyes and tried reconstructing the memory which seemingly occurred eons ago. Although he had replayed this scenario hundreds of time during his incarceration, each time a little piece of it was lost. Now he was remembering. He nodded. His throat tightened.  
  
“I got just outside the door when the house exploded. The blast threw me into the trees. By the time the rescue squad revived me, you were long gone.”  
  
“I can’t...believe this. I never thought ... I ... I ... would ... see you again,” Illya stammered, finding it difficult to speak.  
  
Kuryakin slowly tried rolling on his side to face his partner but lacked the strength. Napoleon helped him before reclining himself and placed a protective arm around Illya.  
  
“How did you find me?” he asked weakly, placing his hands on Napoleon’s face to remove any doubt of an illusion.  
  
“It wasn’t easy. Mr. Waverly pulled out all the stops, calling in a favor from General Rosinov.”  
  
“They know each other?”  
  
“They’ve collaborated secretly several times in the past.”  
  
“Kolyma housed 8 of the defectors.” Illya’s eyes closed while he composed himself. “They’re all dead. Three committed suicide and the rest were executed.”  
  
“Actually, Rosinov removed of the remaining five by either staging their executions or transferring them to different prisons with a trail of paperwork so vague that no one will be able to track them. They’re all safely relocated out of Russia.”  
  
Illya nodded, pleased to hear that small morsel of good news. “Where are we headed now?” he asked.  
  
“Towards Magadan. The two men driving the sleigh are underground locals who know the woods like the back of their hands.”  
  
“Can we trust them? The KGB runs deep here.”  
  
“UNCLE has used them before. Mr. Waverly trusts them implicitly.”  
  
Illya nodded again.  
  
“Are you warm enough?” Napoleon asked.  
  
Kuryakin smiled a little. “The warmest I’ve been in weeks. What kind of blanket is this?”  
  
Napoleon flashed a broad smile and lifted the 6 volt battery tucked beneath the fur pelts.  
  
“We aim to please,” he said, replacing the battery in its hiding place.  
  
“My foot...” Illya said as he tried moving it. “I can’t feel it at all.”  
  
“I gave you a strong pain killer.”  
  
“How bad is the gangrene?”  
  
“The black on your skin was dirt, not gangrene. You really must change your socks more often, my friend.” Napoleon smiled, holding him a little tighter.  
  
“It was broken over a week ago.” Illya paused again. “It’s badly damaged and infected. I’m afraid I may lose the foot.”  
  
“We should have you safely tucked into a hospital bed by this time tomorrow with your foot attended to,” Napoleon assured him. “For now, though, I’m pumping you with enough antibiotics to knock a horse on its ass. If your foot has survived so far, I'm sure it can hold out another few hours.”  
  
They rode in silence for a short while. Despite his considerable exhaustion, Illya refused to sleep, forcing himself wake each time he dozed. He wanted to stave off the probability that this was another delusion as long as possible.  
  
“Illya, I know this is an awkward time to ask...but did Kigaroff want any information from you?" Solo asked quietly,noting his partner's reluctance to sleep.

"No." Illya shook slightly. "All he wanted was revenge."

"During your four weeks in Kolyma he never tried prying anything out of you?"

The blond agent could feel his throat tighten, but he composed himself enough to answer his partner's question. "His 'raison d'être' was ...in his own words... to make my life a living hell." Illya paused momentarily. "He succeeded." Kuryakin paused again. "The only thing he wanted to hear from me was my begging him to stop." Illya didn't bother wiping the tears which welled in his eyes. "That's why he felt cheated."

"What about your interrogation with Thrush?” Napoleon continued.  
  
Illya looked up and nodded, understanding the necessity of the question.  
  
“Marcus Beaudet and Kurt Grous left rather disappointed, as was Kigaroff when they refused to meet his price,” was all that Illya said before he closed his eyes. The blue eyes bolted open seconds later. He snapped his gaze towards Napoleon. “Alexi...remember him...?”  
  
“Wisconsin?”  
  
Illya nodded. “He and his partners were there as well.” He chuckled ever so slightly. “I think the KGB may be having a pestilence infestation.”  
  
Napoleon read between the lines - they had gotten nothing at all from his partner.

_  
“This isn’t Illya Kuryakin,” one of the voices commented.  
  
“Aah, but it is,” Kigaroff assured him.  
  
“Impossible!” the second voice added. “He looks nothing like Kuryakin.”  
  
“Look more closely,” the colonel continued, closing the door behind him.  
  
A pair of hands unbuttoned his coat, then the sweaters. “Unlock the handcuffs!” the voice closest to him demanded.  
  
The outerwear was pulled off him once his hands were uncuffed. His shirt followed.  
  
“Bring him over to the table!” the same voice snapped. “Face down.”  
  
Colonel Kigaroff and the two strangers moved quickly laying him on the table. Once down, Illya’s right arm was stretched over his head. Other hands held him still.  
  
“Hmmm...this was mine,” the same voice remarked. He ran his finger along a pencil-thin scar below the shoulder joint. “August, 1962, I believe. Isn’t that right, Illya?”  
  
Kuryakin strained through the cold and pain to focus on the man’s voice. 1962 - that seemed like ages ago. August, 1962... Stockholm... he and Napoleon Solo were sent to stop a Thrush weapons’ trader from infiltrating an import company... he couldn’t totally avert the knife destined for his back...  
  
“Kurt Grous,” Illya said weakly, shivering from the cold. “Am I to assume the scumbag with you is Marcus Beaudet?”  
  
“Very good,” Grous said. “I can see the good colonel hasn’t beaten you mindless yet.”  
  
“Just when I thought Ivan couldn’t possibly lower his standards, you two show up,” Illya said flatly, finding it difficult to catch his breath. “Trying to fill the coffers for your retirement, Colonel?”  
  
Enraged at Kuryakin’s insolence, Kigaroff removed his belt and struck at the agent’s legs. Illya squirmed and tried gasping air with the lashes. His lungs retaliated with rattling coughs and spasms.  
  
Beaudet finally asked Kigaroff to stop as he and Kurt Grous caucused privately. Moments later they returned.  
  
“Well, Colonel,” Beaudet began, “we cannot meet your terms.”  
  
“Oh?” Colonel Kigaroff asked.  
  
“To begin with, he’s badly damaged...almost beyond repair,” Marcus Beaudet continued. “He’s weak and extremely malnourished. His muscle tone is completely gone. It sounds as if he has had this pneumonia for quite a while. He has a high fever and who knows what else. We seriously doubt he’d remain alive long enough to withstand our interrogations.”  
  
“If we were to take you up on your offer, Colonel,” Grous added, “it would cost Thrush an exorbitant amount of money to fix him. And you can offer no guarantees that he’ll even survive until we get him out of this God-forsaken area. I don’t see it being a sound investment.”  
  
Illya heard footsteps, Beaudet’s footsteps, walking around the table.  
  
“I’m sure Thrush would realize the benefit of taking such a minimal risk.” Kigaroff tried to sound reassuring. “His brain is still working, although I must admit a bit clouded with pain at the present time. But you can remedy that, I’m sure.”  
  
Beaudet began pressing and prodding Illya’s ribs, then proceeded to remove the boot covering his right foot.White-hot pain coarsed through the entire leg, blessedly causing him to black out._

_  
When consciousness returned, Illya was seated upright in an armchair with his hands cuffed once again behind him. He was alone. The blindfold was gone, giving him the opportunity to see the drab surroundings of this particular interrogation room.  
  
Someone had the decency of dressing him in his wool shirt, and although it offered very little warmth, Illya was thankful that he had even a little buffer against the cold, damp air.  
  
His right foot throbbed. Kuryakin had neither the dexterity nor strength to look down his leg, but he felt the boot.  
  
In a short while, Colonel Kigaroff and the two Thrush agents returned, joined this time by Alexi from Wisconsin accompanied by the two other nameless KGB who left with him that night.  
  
Kurt Grous pulled a chair close to Illya’s and sat down.  
  
“Well, my friend, we’re at an impasse,” Grous began. “I feel you are of some value to Thrush, while my colleague disagrees. I guess it’s up to you.”  
  
Kigaroff handed Grous a syringe. The Thrush agent held the needle upward and tapped the barrel before pushing any trapped air out of it with the plunger. Illya watched silently, but tried pulling away as Grous neared him.  
  
“This is morphine, Kuryakin,” Grous said as he inject a very small portion of it into Illya’s thigh. “I doubt that beating you at this juncture would be worthwhile, since you’ve obviously endured more than most men could handle. Mr. Beaudet and I are not of the same opinion. Fortunately for you, I won the coin toss, so we’ll try my method first.”  
  
Within five minutes, the pain had subsided only slightly.  
  
“OK, let’s start with your partner,” Kurt Grous began.  
  
“My partner?” Illya asked weakly, still hurting from the majority of pain not masked by the morphine.  
  
“Yes. Napoleon Solo.”  
  
Illya closed his eyes. He had tried to stop thinking about Napoleon, stop lamenting the loss if his closest friend, stop deluding himself into debating whether or not he may still be alive and actively seeking to rescue him.  
  
“He’s dead,” Illya finally said in a barely audible voice.  
  
“Dead?”  
  
“The KGB killed him when I was kidnapped. I saw the blast with my own eyes.” Illya’s voice was very distant. He nodded towards Alexi and his two comrades and commented that they witnessed it as well.  
  
Marcus Beaudet and Kurt Grous looked at each other.  
  
Beaudet shrugged his shoulders at Illya’s comment. “I guess that’s why we haven’t heard any updates on his recent activities.” He turned his attention to Illya. “That’s a good start, Mr. Kuryakin. Perhaps my partner’s philosophy is working after all.”  
  
Illya felt himself shutting down, physically and emotionally. Merely hearing his partner’s name and being faced again with the death brought his current reality down upon him like a ton of bricks. He began blocking out everything being asked and said to him. He heard nothing a felt very little.  
  
The UNCLE agent had no idea how much time had passed until the men from Thrush and Colonel Kigaroff simply gave up on him, sending him back to Cottage 12. Illya was so unresponsive that he didn’t realize he was carrying his coat and sweaters, his gloves, scarf and hat until he was shoved inside the cottage, fiercely trembling from the cold._

The rhythm of the horses’ hooves slowed, eventually bringing the sleigh to a halt.One of the drivers stuck his head into the canvas covering and announced that they reached the rendezvous point for their fresh horses.  
  
“Ah, good morning,” the man greeted in Russian. His mouth broke into a big, toothy smile when he saw that Illya was awake, and he introduced himself as Anton Stephanovich Kaminsky.  
  
“Illya Nickovich Kuryakin,” he responded, glad to have his own name back again. “It’s morning?” Illya did not realize he practically slept through the entire night.  
  
“Yes. Almost 6 am.” Anton Stephanovich disappeared from the canvas for a few seconds before returning with his partner.  
  
“Illya Nickovich, this is Lubomyr Stephanovich, my younger brother. And of course you already met Mikeal Stephanovich Kaminsky, our other brother,” Anton smiled, pointing to Napoleon, “...which must make you Nicholas Hugovich Kaminsky, our cousin.”  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
The four “trappers” arrived at the rendezvous point earlier than expected. Their contacts would not be arriving for at least 20 minutes, so Lubomyr removed the canvas around the sleigh and climbed in the back along with Anton while they waited for the fresh horses. Napoleon helped Illya sit up and propped him against the backboard. Kuryakin maneuvered the blanket around him for warmth.  
  
Anton brought a sack with him. In the soft lantern light, Illya watched as he brought out a loaf of fresh black bread and cheese. Lubomyr carried in two insulated bottles, one with sweet tea, the other with hot borscht.  
  
“Are you hungry?” Anton asked Illya.  
  
Illya shook his head slightly.  
  
“Well, you need to eat something, my friend,” Anton continued. Then he looked around suspiciously and whispered: “You look like you’ve just escaped from a labor camp!”  
  
Kuryakin grimaced slightly, not fully appreciating the humor.  
  
Lubomyr poured Illya a hot mug of borscht while Anton cut him slices of bread and cheese. The bulky mittens were removed and Lubomyr placed the mug in Illya’s shaking hand.  
  
Kuryakin attacked the food with as much relish as he could muster; his appetite was gone after weeks of little or no food to fill his belly. His pain and fever killed the rest. The aroma of the borscht nauseated him, but he forced himself to drink a little, knowing he needed to pack away as much nourishment as he could handle to begin regaining his health.  
  
After a few sips, Illya lowered the mug from his lips and stood it on the rim of the sleigh’s backboard. He managed to eat almost the entire slice of bread and only a little of the cheese, afraid that the food wouldn’t stay down once they began moving again.  
  
The fresh horses arrived at the pre-planned time. Two more Kaminsky brothers brought the black and gray mares to the sleigh and replaced them with the two tan horses which ushered Illya from the labor camp. The brothers also handed a filled sack of food and beverages to Lubomyr. They spoke for a moment more then parted company with the fur trappers, trotting away into the woods.  
  
Lubomyr Stephanovich and his brother Anton stepped over the rim of the sleigh to return to the drivers’ seats, and with the click of the tongue, the mares were moving them across the frozen terrain.  
  
They planned to approach Magadan from the south, their only viable escape route from Russia. As a major port city, the waterway entrance to the Pacific Ocean via the Sea of Okhotsk was kept open by ice breakers, and once in International waters, they would make their way to Canada or the US. It was the only sensible way out; Illya was found so far east in the USSR, heading west to exit the country was simply too risky.  
  
The trip was difficult for Illya. Using Kolyma Road was out of the question...too visible, so they traveled through the woods and later on an icy tundra. He was physically ill and weaker than he ever remembered. The motion of the sleigh added to his discomfort, and the fear of being stopped by the KGB was always weighing on his mind. Even the best of plans fail, but when they fail behind the Iron Curtain, the risks of retribution and punishment are magnified.


	10. Chapter 10

About 10 kilometers outside the Magadan city limits, Illya’s worse fears materialized. He was still lying in the back of the sleigh and only heard the horses approaching. Anton tapped the sleigh’s headboard three times.  
  
“What are they wearing?” Illya asked Napoleon as they neared.  
  
“Green uniforms...kind of forest green. Their hats have black bands and red piping.”  
  
Illya sighed. “Border guards.” He paused, then his eyes opened wide. “Napoleon, they’ll see my prison trousers.”  
  
By now, Napoleon was removing the Kolyma splint from Illya’s foot and tucking in down into the corner of the sleigh’s flatbed, safely hidden beneath the fur pelts.  
  
“No, I ditched them last night. The guards won’t know where you came from.”  
  
A group of four border guards approached on horseback and surrounded the Kaminskys’ sleigh, brandishing their guns. An officer who introduced himself as Captain Stolinz demanded to see everyone’s identification papers. The Kaminsky brothers handed theirs over first while Napoleon produced his, then reached inside Illya’s coat to hand over his partner’s. Three of the guards readied their guns as Napoleon’s hand went beneath the blanket. Solo kept one hand in plain sight while he fished through Illya’s coat for the papers, then removed them from under the blanket with both hands raised.  
  
“What’s wrong with him?” the Captain asked Solo after reading his ID papers.  
  
Napoleon looked at Anton and Lubomyr frantically, then at the guards and shook his head.  
  
“My brother cannot speak well. He’s practically mute,” Lubomyr explained, covering for Napoleon’s less than proficient Russian.  
  
“What about your cousin. What’s wrong with him? He looks terrible,” the Captain said.  
  
“He got his foot caught in a trap last week,” Anton explained. “We are taking him to a hospital in Magadan.”  
  
Without saying a word, the Captain dismounted his horse and walked to the back of the sleigh. Kuryakin squirmed as he neared. Stolinz pulled back the fur pelts and blanket to look at Illya’s foot. He removed the socks and roughly handled the broken, swollen foot to make sure it was not simply a ruse. Illya moaned loudly at his touch, weakly trying to pull his foot away.  
  
“Keep him still!” Captain Stolinz ordered Napoleon.  
  
The officer continued to probe. He picked up one of the traps hanging from the side of the sleigh and tested it’s grip, not satisfied that the small animal trap could do that much damage.  
  
Stolinz then climbed on the bed of the sleigh and pulled back the blanket to get a closer look at Illya. He opened the agent’s black wool coat and lifted the heavy blue sweater, shirt, and long johns to look at his torso. Illya shivered as the cold air washed over him.  
  
“Who beat him?” the Captain asked, pressing his fingers into Illya’s bruised ribs.  
  
“My uncle, Hugo Janovich. My cousin is very strong willed and his father was trying to break his stubborn streak,” Lubomyr lied.  
  
“You’re very skinny,” Stolinz said to Illya.  
  
“We’re poor. Food is scarce,” Illya replied, shivering with the cold. He tried pulling down his shirts and sweater to warm himself, but Stolinz grasped his wrist, stopping him.  
  
The Captain sneered at Kuryakin. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying.” He looked around. “I think you’re all lying.”  
  
Captain Stolinz eyed them suspiciously, and ordered the Kaminskys to stay where they were. One of the guards carried a portable phone pack, allowing the Captain to ring up the Major-General, his superior. The Captain looked at Kuryakin, dictating his description over the phone. His words were practically indiscernible; all the Kaminskys could see was his head shaking, then nodding, then shaking again as he spoke.  
  
“I’ll be expecting his call,” they finally heard him say.  
  
When he finished, the Captain approached Illya once again and questioned him.  
  
“Where are you from?”  
“How did this happen?”  
“Why did you wait a week to get help?”  
“What was your father’s name?”  
“Where was he from?”  
“What is his job?”  
“How long has he been doing it?”  
“Where were you born?”  
“Where were you trapping?”  
“What’s your father’s name?”  
  
  
The Captain repeated the questions, trying to trick Illya into tripping over his own answers. Even in his weakened, compromised state, Kuryakin held firm to his responses. Stolinz was still suspicious.  
  
“Colonel Kigaroff will be ringing me back momentarily,” the KGB officer began. “The Major-General is phoning him to inquire about any escapees from Kolyma fitting your description. I highly doubt there is any truth to your story, Nickolas Hugovich Kaminsky, or whoever you are. We will soon find out.”  
  
Captain Stolinz ordered his soldiers to pull Kuryakin off the sleigh. The three guards holstered their guns and moved around to assist their officer. As they began pulling the agent by the leg, feet, trousers, whatever they could grasp as Illya squirmed, four muffled shots rang out.  
  
The Kaminsky brothers fired four perfect head shots into the KGB border patrol party, killing them instantly. Anton picked up the radio from the fallen guard and threw it on his seat. Boots. coats, uniforms were removed from the dead agents and stashed under boards in the flatbed. The bodies of the KGB men were hidden behind snow drifts, then the Kaminskys piled into the sleigh.  
  
Lubomyr snapped the reins and the horses began trotting through the snow.  
  
Several moments later the telephone rang. Anton cranked the handle and lifted the receiver, waiting for the person on the other end to introduce himself.  
  
“Yes. Good morning Colonel Kigaroff. This is Captain Stolinz,” Anton began in perfectly cultured Russian. “We found a group of fur trappers on the way to Magadan.”...”The Kaminsky brothers and their cousin.”...”Yes, one of them is injured.”...”His description? Brown hair. Brown eyes. Not quite six feet tall. Broken foot.”...”The left foot, Colonel.”...”No, he’s taller than that. I just made him stand up.”...”Well, I just wanted to be sure. Thank you.”  
  
Anton hung up the receiver and laughed. He turned towards the UNCLE agents in the back of the sleigh. “Well, Illya Nickovich, you are almost a free man again.”

  
  
* * * * *

As they neared Magadan, the ravages of the Russian winter diminished slightly, revealing a partially passable Kolyma Road. Two of the Kaminsky brothers’ contacts met them near the outskirts of the city with a sturdy pickup truck. Napoleon helped Illya into the cab, while Anton got behind the wheel. Lubomyr jumped into the back of the flatbed and they took off took off for the docks. This port city was originally created as an entrance point for bringing prisoners to the Gulag. Now it would serve as the UNCLE agents’ juncture of escape.  
  
Anton knew the streets well, waving to people as they passed, fitting right in with the locals. From the back, Lubomyr called to friends and whistled at the women. Illya cringed at their overt, attention-seeking tactics, but understood their motive. Hiding in plain sight. If they were being observed, the local authorities would probably ignore this truckload of rowdy fishermen.  
  
“Ay, Galina!” Lubomyr shouted to a slender woman wearing an old gray coat with a bright blue scarf. She turned around at the sound of his voice. “My boat gets back in two days. Can I see you then?”  
  
“Not on your life, Lubomyr Stephanovich,” she shouted back. “Your wife would hunt me down like a dog.”  
  
Inside the truck, Napoleon injected Illya with his last syringe of pain killer for the final leg of their escape. Solo could see that his partner was using every last ounce of his reserve to appear strong. Illya’s pallor looked worse than before and Napoleon could feel the trembling next to him. He placed a reassuring hand on Kuryakin, hoping to convey the message that soon, this would all be behind them.  
  
The old pickup truck drove to the dock. Ice breakers were busy keeping the harbor viable while Russian longshoremen were loading vessels about to set sail. The large tankers and freighters swayed slightly as the sea swelled end ebbed.  
  
Anton handed Napoleon an almost empty bottle of whiskey, then got out from behind the steering wheel. By the time he walked over to the passenger’s side, Solo had doused Illya’s clothing with the liquor, and before emptying the bottle on the clothing, silently offered his partner a guzzle. Illya poured a very small quantity into his mouth and swished it around before swallowing.

Solo exited the truck next, then pulled his partner out from the passenger's side. In what appeared to be a drunken gesture, the blond agent swatted at Napoleon, trying to push him away.  
  
Illya had little difficulty mimicking a drunk. Not only was he unsteady on his feet, he now reeked of whiskey. He forced a few inebriated words and laughs, then leaned against the truck.  
  
Lubomyr threw down three sets of faded, dirty macintoshes from the back of the pickup. Anton and Napoleon quickly dressed themselves, covering their coats and trousers with the waterproofed rainwear before helping Kuryakin into his.  
  
Illya was convincing as he tried pushing away the hands of the men who tried to outfit him. Lubomyr dressed in his set then jumped down to help his brothers. Several people chuckled as they watched the Kaminskys attempt to outfit this uncooperative drunk.  
  
The Kaminskys boarded the gangplank to a large commercial fishing boat with their struggling cousin, holding him up to protect his broken foot more than appearances indicated. Once inside the cabin, Napoleon sat his partner down on a crate and nodded to the captain. Once the boat left the dock, the Kaminskys called the other boat hands into the cabin, opened a bottle of vodka and passed it around in celebration.  
  
“These are my true comrades,” Lubomyr boasted with a broad, toothy smile. “One day we will be able to sail these waters without the watchful eye of the KGB.”  
  
The captain motioned for Anton to get some food for his guests. Anton returned with sardines, cheese, and bread. Napoleon accepted a little bread and cheese, but all his partner could stomach was a small slice of the bread. The blond agent chewed slowly, still disinterested in food.  
  
Illya sat back and wearily closed his eyes.  
  
“You live in America now?” one of the crew asked.  
  
Illya opened his eyes and nodded.  
  
”How did you defect?” another asked.  
  
“The man who is now my boss helped me,” Illya replied, guarding his words.  
  
Lubomyr laughed again. “The KGB wasn’t too thrilled with that, were they, Illya Nickovich?”  
  
“Kigaroff invested too much time and energy into your indoctrination to let you slip through his fingers that easily,” Anton chided. “Luckily, your boss wanted you back more than Kigaroff did.”  
  
Illya looked up at his hosts, forcing another smile. They knew more about him than he realized. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” he said softly. He grabbed the bottle vodka and took a swift drink. “You are indeed true comrades.”  
  
The fishing ship was now picking up speed, staying in Russian waters parallel to the coast with other ships to avoid suspicion. Once night fell, they would veer slightly left towards international waters.

  
  
* * * * *

Shortly after nightfall, lights of an approaching vessel were visible on the horizon. Still in Russian waters, the captain of the fishing boat needed to confirm the identity of the nearby boat before venturing near international waters. The prearranged signal was flashed and returned, and the vessel steered slightly left once more.  
  
The boat’s captain needed to sail prudently; he knew the Russian border patrol monitored ships in the Sea of Okhotsk, keeping out enemy intruders as well as averting escapes to America or Canada. If he sailed on too extreme an angle, the authorities would take note and possible send out their patrols to investigate.  
  
When the two ships were within eight kilometers of each other, a dinghy carrying two passengers was silently lowered into the frigid water. The waves rocked the small inflated craft violently. Napoleon and Illya were tossed about inside, silently praying that they would make it through this final leg of the journey.  
  
Solo paddled the oars to move them away from the fishing boats while Illya clung to the hand grasps for dear life. The blond agent’s normal tolerance for sailing was low; this was almost intolerable. The rocky movements of the lightweight dinghy were creating havoc on Illya’s already queasy stomach.  
  
Both men were exhausted and chilled to the core. The arctic, icy air pervaded every layer of their protective insulated clothing. The life vests they wore would keep them from sinking should their dinghy overturn or be destroyed, but would offer little or no warmth against the frigid waters. They would only survive several minutes in the Northern Pacific.  
  
Illya was unable to move. His stamina was lessening by the moment and this final part of their escape seemed endless. He was freezing, shivering uncontrollably. His pain killer had started wearing off before they left the fishing boat and each movement the dinghy only added to his misery.  
  
Although he hated admitting it to himself, he was also scared to death. The type of paralyzing fear he rarely felt. In the event of his recapture, the prospect of an execution would seem preferable to his anticipated treatment back in Kolyma, or wherever they chose to send him. And Napoleon? They would either kill him on the spot or contact their allies with Thrush that they had a precious package for them.  
  
He tried putting these damning thoughts out of his head and focus on getting out of Russian waters. Fortunately, Napoleon was experienced with sailing and well-equipped to handle most sea-faring vessels. And at the moment, he trusted his partner’s control.  
  
As soon as Napoleon was a safe distance from the fishing vessels, he revved up the outboard motor on the dinghy and aimed it towards their mark on the horizon. Soon, they were within two kilometers of international waters, a little over mile to safety.  
  
Seconds later light beams from helicopters above began criss-crossing the waters surrounding the two UNCLE agents. Russian Border Patrol vessels had been tracking their escape and were now actively trying to stop them.  
  
“Hold on, Illya,” Napoleon snarled as he began zig-zagging the dinghy through the choppy water as a defensive maneuver.  
  
The light beams scoured the surface of the sea, trying to pinpoint their target. Random shots were fired in their general direction in a desperate attempt to sink the dinghy.  
  
Illya turned on his side and covered his head with his arm as he kept tight hold of the hand grasps. Napoleon’s maneuvering forced the dinghy to literally beat against the waves, causing sea water to lob over the sides and begin pool on the bottom. Bullets whizzed by, luckily missing their mark.  
  
“We’re almost on the home stretch,” Napoleon shouted, trying to sound reassuring.  
  
Illya couldn’t find the voice to respond.  
  
“Are you still with me?” Solo asked, throwing a quick glance towards his silent partner.  
  
A weak sounding “Yes” was all he could say.  
  
“Good! If this old dinghy holds out for a few more minutes, we should be out of danger.”  
  
The choppy maneuvering continued, keeping the agents out of the path of the light beams. The barrage of aimless bullets continued as well. The lights coming from vessel on the horizon brightened as they neared. Illya kept focusing on that, silently willing the dinghy to make it to international waters.  
  
A sharp hiss erupted from the side of the dinghy behind Illya’s head. One of the border patrol’s bullets met its mark and tore through the tough plastic.  
  
“Throw me the kit!” Illya managed to yell.  
  
Napoleon instantly knew what he needed, and in the darkness, felt for the sealed plastic box containing the emergency repair kit. He tossed it to Illya, who opened the lid and felt for the large plastic patches inside. After finding one, he tore the wrapping off with his teeth and placed the gooey, sticky plastic side down over the hole. The hissing stopped.  
  
The dinghy was a little less buoyant but seaworthy nevertheless. Moments later, Napoleon maneuvered it out of Russian waters and harm's way, bringing it safely to the waiting vessel in international waters. Illya closed his eyes and sighed when he saw the American flag waving from the back of the US Coast Guard rescue boat.  
  
The Coast Guard sailors helped the two UNCLE agents out of the Northern Pacific Ocean. Napoleon Solo was solicitous of his partner, snapping at the crew to handle him with care...watch his foot...be careful of his ribs...  
  
A medical transport helicopter met the Coast Guard vessel several miles off the coast of Alaska and airlifted the agents to Harbor Memorial Hospital in Seattle. En route and out of imminent danger, Illya body finally relented and he fell unconscious.

* * * * *

Once in Seattle, the senior agent was again overly protective, refusing to let the medical team take Illya out of his sight. The head surgeon, Dr. Fittler, pulled Solo aside and told him that he had been in direct contact with Alexander Waverly and Kuryakin would be in good hands.  
  
“I’m staying with him!” Solo said adamantly. “I didn’t bring him this far to...”  
  
“Please, Mr. Solo,” the doctor interrupted, holding his hands up to stop the agent from moving any closer. “We’ve been expecting your arrival and we’re ready to proceed with your partner. He’s out like a light and I doubt he’ll wake up any time soon. I understand your concerns, but to be quite honest, unless you’ve suddenly obtained a medical degree, hospital policy will not allow you to join us in the operating room.”  
  
“I'm not leaving him. If he wakes up, he’s going to be a handful,” Solo argued.  
  
Dr. Fittler smiled. “I know. Mr. Waverly has wired me more than adequate information on Mr. Kuryakin...” he paused a second or two, “...and briefed me about his hair-trigger reactions. Mr. Solo, please trust us. If he does regain consciousness and becomes somewhat ...er...difficult, you’ll be the first to know. Promise.”  
  
The doctor summoned a hospital administrator to escort an uncooperative Napoleon to the Fittler’s private office suite. He suggested that the UNCLE agent take advantage of the shower and sofa. Arrangements would be made for clean clothes and something to eat. Reluctantly, Solo nodded.  
  
After peeling off the many layers of damp winter clothing, Solo entered the shower stall and let the hot, steamy water pour over him. His eyes closed as he tried washing away the past 48 hours of bone chilling cold, stress, and anxiety. Fatigue began overtaking him and all he wanted now was sleep. He rinsed off the shampoo and soap and turned off the water, dried himself and wrapped the towel around his waist.  
  
The administrator was a man of his word. When Napoleon re-entered the private office, a large bowl of hot mushroom barley soup and a grilled cheese sandwich were waiting for him. Along side it was a steaming mug of hot chocolate. A gray sweatsuit was laid out for him on the couch, which had been made up with a sheet, a thick blanket, and two fluffy pillows. 

* * * * *

  
Illya was still unconscious when his gurney was wheeled into a private area within the emergency room. He was immediately tended to. Only several hand-picked physicians and staffers were used, each having been previously cleared by UNCLE security. The agent was to be assessed, cleaned, and prepped for surgery.  
  
Dr. Fittler and his team looked over Illya’s inert body with a fine toothed comb. Several concerns could not be addressed since the agent was still unconscious, but the team was nevertheless thorough. When they finished, the two orderlies who were planning to bathe him entered.  
  
As the orderlies were donning their waterproof aprons, Illya began to stir ever so slightly. The agent listened before opening his eyes, hearing the quiet banter between the two men. He squinted against the brightness of the overhead lights, trying to determine his surroundings.  
  
His mind began to click into gear, going through his mental rolodex to recognize the environment. Obviously something medical...but where? The men were speaking quietly with their backs towards him, so he was unable to hear what they were saying and in what language they were speaking.  
  
He quickly tilted down his chin to look at himself. A blanket covered him. His chest, and probably the rest of his body was naked under it.

IV tubes were dripping something into his veins. The overhead lights obscured his ability to read what the fluid bag contained.  
  
Napoleon was nowhere around. Possibly he was never there at all. Maybe the escape was another delusion. Perhaps Thrush finally did meet Colonel Kigaroff’s price.  
  
Concerned that he had been recaptured or fallen into enemy hands, Illya silently began maneuvering his body off the gurney. For reasons beyond his grasp, he was pain-free. Why on earth would Thrush...or the KGB for that matter...offer him some degree of comfort.  
  
As he began his escape, the two orderlies became aware that he had awaken and immediately tried thwarting his plans.

  
  
* * * * *

The telephone in Dr. Fittler’s office rang just as Napoleon settled down on the couch to sleep. He picked up the receiver.  
  
Seconds later, he was running down the hallway to the elevator, still in bare feet.  
  
Dr. Fittler met him as the elevator door opened and ran down the hallway with him to the examining room where a still-agitated Illya Kuryakin managed to ward off the orderlies’ attempts to restrain him.  
  
“He IS rather difficult,” the doctor admitted as they rushed through the door.  
  
Illya never noticed his partner and the doctor entering. His energies were preoccupied with distancing himself from the orderlies. The two orderlies, though, did notice and made a united move towards Kuryakin.  
  
Using his uninjured foot, Illya thrust himself to the side, hopefully falling off the table while pushing it into the orderlies to stop them. He was partially successful, and made it all the way past the rim of the gurney before Napoleon caught him mid-flight.  
  
“Easy, Superman,” Napoleon chuckled as he caught his partner. “You’re losing your cape.”  
  
Illya froze the second he heard Solo’s voice, breathing heavily. Before he knew what was happening, Napoleon laid him back down on the gurney and covered him with the “cape” which refused to take flight.  
  
Instantly, one of the orderlies took hold of Illya’s right wrist and placed a restraint around it, pulling on the leather to secure it to the gurney.  
  
“Take that off!” Napoleon hissed.  
  
The orderlies looked at Dr. Fittler, who simply nodded for them to comply.  
  
“Illya, do you know where you are?” Napoleon asked him, locking his gaze directly into the confused blue eyes. He held tightly to Illya’s wrists, keeping him as still as possible.  
  
The blond agent looked around slowly, taking in the elements within the room. “Seattle...?” he finally asked.  
  
“Good. And do you remember how we got here?”  
  
Illya looked away, thinking. “The last thing I remembered was the helicopter,” he finally said. Napoleon felt his partner’s muscles relax a little.  
  
“Good. Dr. Fittler is the surgeon who will be patching you back up, Illya.”  
  
Kuryakin looked at the doctor and nodded. “We’ve met,” he said.  
  
Solo knew his partner had settled down enough to release his hold.  
  
“I’m glad you’re awake,” Dr. Fittler said, moving in closer once he deemed it safe. “It makes my job a little easier.”  
  
For the next few minutes, Dr. Fittler bombarded Illya with a slew of questions while he re-poked areas around Illya’s chest and abdomen. Napoleon watched his partner squirm and grumble through the necessary invasion, noting that the answers were succinct and detached.  
  
“Have you been able to eat and drink? Your abdomen is very tender and distended.”  
  
“A little.”  
  
“Come on Mr. Kuryakin. Help me out here,” the doctor finally said in exasperation. “It’s your health I’m trying to restore, not mine.”  
  
Illya shut his eyes and gave the doctor an abridged account of why he was unable to eat more than little bits at a time. Having had a fever for over two weeks. Being beaten repeatedly in his midsection. The pain he endured. Hence the nausea and vomiting...blood. He failed to mention to fear and anxiety which gnawed at him constantly for most of his incarceration.  
  
According to Illya’s standards, the doctor finished in record time. He stood up and told the agents that he was waiting for the results of Illya’s bloodwork and x-rays, and he should be ready to operate within the half hour.  
  
“No offense, Mr. Kuryakin, but you are positively filthy,” Dr. Fittler said as he cracked a smile. “The orderlies need to clean you up before I can do anything else with you.”  
  
Illya nodded. It was inevitable. The doctor left and the two orderlies moved closer, unsure what kind of a reception they would receive.  
  
“You will let these gentlemen do their job, right, Illya?” Napoleon asked, squeezing his partner’s arm.  
  
“If I must,” the agent sighed. He eyed the orderlies suspiciously, causing one to stop in his tracks. “I need a shave...”  
  


  
Less than half an hour later, Illya returned to the exam room clean.And shaven.  
  
“He drives a tough bargain!” one of the orderlies muttered.  
  
They left the gurney containing the smirking UNCLE agent with Napoleon.  
  
The orderlies were wet from head to toe and obviously displeased with their recent patient.  
  
“He’s all yours!” the grunting one said before turning to leave.  
  
There was an awkward moment of silence after their departure.  
  
“You didn’t make it difficult for them, did you?” Napoleon asked, already knowing the answer.  
  
“I told them I wanted to shave. Is that asking too much?” Illya responded quietly.  
  
“Under these circumstances, yes,” Napoleon answered matter-of-factly. Deep inside, he was glad to see Illya was still prickly.  
  
“Next, I’m looking forward to a warm bed and clean sheets.”  
  
“Soon, Illya." Napoleon ran his hand through Kuryakin's hair, smiling. "At least you’re blond again.”  
  
Illya laid quietly for a moment. “Have you spoken to Mr. Waverly yet?” he finally asked.  
  
“Yes,” Solo answered. “He’s pleased we made it safely back to the US.”  
  
Illya regretted bringing up the subject of Mr. Waverly. He again began doubting the integrity of his boss’ involvement in this affair.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Napoleon asked, moving closer in the silence.  
  
Illya could not answer.  
  
Napoleon raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

"I'm not sure of his innocence in all this," the Russian quietly said.  
  
“Illya, Mr. Waverly was assured that you were not going to be a target. That’s why he sent you to Wisconsin with me.”  
  
“And who could have given him those assurances?”.  
  
Napoleon hesitated for a moment and then gave his partner an answer.  
  
“General Rosinov.”  
  
Illya’s eyes widened, understanding the ramifications of the general’s actions. Despite General Rosinov’s position in the KGB, no one, absolutely no one was exempt from scrutiny in the eyes of the Soviet Government.  
  
“I would never had wagered on him,” Illya said.  
  
“Due to the sensitive nature of the repatriations, he was unable to tell Mr. Waverly who they were after, but he was able to tell him who was NOT targeted. Illya, you were not on his ‘A’ list.”  
  
“But I was on Kigaroff’s,” Illya surmised.  
  
“Needless to say, the General was not to thrilled with someone sneaking behind his back.”  
  
Illya nodded, somewhat appeased that his boss did not send him into the lion’s den as a sacrifice.  
  
“Besides, Illya...Mr. Waverly fought long and hard to get you. Did you really think he would put your life in jeopardy if he even suspected you would be at imminent risk?”  
  
The blond head shook slowly. Alexander Waverly was one of a only small few he respected without question. “But you suspected it. You voiced your objections to my going before we left Waverly’s office.”  
  
“It was just a sneaking suspicion, that’s all.” Napoleon paused. “You realize, of course, that had you followed my orders in the first place and left with the Merkenin Brothers, we would not be having this conversation at all.”  
  
Illya’s eyes glared directly into Napoleon’s. “You realize, of course, that had I followed your orders in the first place **_you_** would not be having **_any_** conversations at all. Period.”  
  
The senior agent smiled. “Touché, partner. Um... why _did_ you come back?”  
  
“Just a sneaking suspicion, Napoleon.” Kuryakin paused again. “Do I still have an apartment when I get home?” he asked, changing the subject.  
  
“Rent’s been paid. Utilities, too,” Solo assured him. “You’ll have heat and running water when you get back.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
The same two orderlies returned a short while later to wheel Illya into the operating room.  
  
“Get some sleep Napoleon,” a quiet voice trailed through the door, “You’re beginning to look like hell.”

  
  
* * * * *

Illya awoke later that day, disoriented and groggy. He felt nothing, positively nothing. No pain, no sense of time, no reality. Blurred people moved around him in slow motion, speaking to him with disjointed words.  
  
A hand touched his shoulder. Slowly, Illya turned his head to see his partner nearby. At least he thought it was his partner. Very little made sense.  
  
“...you know where you are...” The lips did not move with the sound. The words were too slow and deep, like a 78 record being played at 33 1/3 rpm.  
  
Kuryakin shook his head a little.  
  
“...are in Seattle...”  
  
Illya scanned his immediate surroundings. A clean bed, sheets, pillow, blanket, the sun streaming in. Warm, comfortable. He turned away, afraid that this was his imagination playing another cruel trick on him once again and he would really wake up on the cold straw mattress in Kolyma. He blinked his eyes to clear the image, but when his eyes reopened, it remained.  
  
“There’s no sun in Seattle,” remarked a groggy voice.  
  
“You caught it on a good day, partner.”  
  
Dr. Fittler entered the room. “Ahh good, you’re awake, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
“Barely.”  
  
“The good news is that you’re going to be just fine.”  
  
“And the bad news?” Illya asked weakly.  
  
“It may take a little while.”  
  
“Please define ‘a little while’.”  
  
“A lot of that depends on you, Illya.” The doctor stopped to observe the monitors hooked up to Kuryakin. He fiddled with the IV bags, checking to make sure everything he prescribed was being administered. He finally returned his attention to the agent. “You have three cracked ribs, but they’ve been healing very nicely on their own. I scoped your stomach and there’s been some injury, but that too will heal. No permanent damage. After a few days of soft foods you will be able to eat whatever you’d like. All those cuts and abrasions were cleaned out and patched up in a truly superior manner.A plastic surgeon did the final suturing, so your scarring will be minimized.Your pneumonia...well, that’s still could be a problem. Your lungs sound like Niagara Falls. We’re on top of it, though. ”  
  
“And I suspect you saved the best news for last,” Illya sighed.  
  
“Yup! Your foot. A lot of damage there. I literally spent hours working on it, rebreaking and resetting several broken metatarsals, trying to fit in the bone fragments back together like a jigsaw puzzle. The infection was pretty bad, about to settle in the bones. I scraped and cleaned the infected areas, and I’ve begun a very aggressive treatment of antibiotics. This is where you come in, Mr. Kuryakin...” Dr. Fittler pulled back the blanket covering Illya’s right foot.  
  
A very swollen foot and leg were wrapped in first in gauge, then elastic bandaging before being placed in a thick plastic splint which cradled the entire foot and leg below the knee. More elastic bandage wrapped around the splint and leg, creating a secure temporary cast.  
  
“Do not, I repeat, do **_not_** , under any circumstances, put one ounce of pressure on this foot until I give you the ‘thumbs up’,” Dr. Fittler warned. “If it rotates while you sleep, that’s fine. You can move it any way you want in bed. But I don’t want you standing on it at all. It’s being held together by rubberbands and spit, and I may not be able to repair it a second time. Do I make myself clear?”  
  
“Completely.”  
  
Dr. Fittler looked at Napoleon, who smiled and promised to sit on Illya’s chest if necessary to keep him from getting out of bed.  
  
Illya fought the urge to sleep, still unsure if this would be gone when he awoke. He persuaded himself that this would be the granddaddy of all delusions should he wake up back in Kolyma.

Moments later his eyelids closed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Two Weeks Later**  
  
Illya was sitting in a large recliner doing the New York Times’ crossword puzzle. In ink. “53 Down” had stumped him, but Illya attributed the slight loss of his mental acuity to his medications.  
  
He had just been flown back to UNCLE Headquarters in New York City, relegated to spending at least two more weeks in Medical once Dr. Fittler’s team in Seattle, Washington, considered him fit to travel. They recommended that he stay at least a week longer, but Illya was adamant about returning to New York.  
  
The blond agent had only regained a little of his weight back, leaving him still pale and painfully thin. He had slept through part his stay in Seattle and was quite groggy for the rest, eating very little. It was only in the past few days that his appetite began to return.  
  
Alexander Waverly walked into his hospital room carrying a vase of vibrant flowers and a brown paper bag.  
  
“Welcome back, Mr. Kuryakin,” the UNCLE chief said as he walked over to shake his agent’s hand. The brown bag was placed on the tray table, the flowers on his night stand next to several partially consumed boxes of candy.  
  
“It feels good to be back, Sir,” Illya said, smiling a little.  
  
The old man looked at the almost-completed crossword puzzle.  
  
“Has one of the answers eluded you?” Mr. Waverly asked, eyeing the puzzle from a distance.  
  
“53 Down.”  
  
“’Cacophony’,” Waverly offered without even looking at the clue.  
  
Illya picked up the puzzle and his pen, looked at 53 down, then back up at his boss and raised his eyebrows.  
  
“Amazing,” Illya sighed as he shook his head, filling the letters into the puzzle. “’A disharmonious mixture of sounds’ - cacophony.”  
  
“I completed it over breakfast this morning,” his boss said matter-of-factly. “One of their more difficult ones, I must say.”  
  
Mr. Waverly pulled a chair over next to Illya and sat down. He slid the tray table near them and opened the brown bag. Two bowls, two spoons, and a pint of chocolate ice cream materialized.  
  
Illya winced. “Is Napoleon divulging my personal secrets now?”  
  
“We didn’t even need to resort to bamboo shoots under his fingernails this time,” the UNCLE chief said pan-faced.  
  
The ice cream was portioned into the two bowls, and Mr. Waverly handed Illya the heftier of the two. Kuryakin put down the crossword puzzle and dived into the treat.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Mr. Waverly asked after eating a few mouthfuls himself.  
  
“Better than I have in weeks, thank you. I can even move my toes now,” he said proudly, demonstrating his newly acquired skill beneath the temporary cast still supporting his foot and leg. “I seriously thought I was going to lose my foot.”  
  
“According to the medical team, that was a strong possibility. The pressure of walking on it for more than a week damaged your foot almost beyond repair. They were very aggressive in your treatment and did an excellent job preserving not only your foot, but its function as well. Their prognosis is full usage of the foot after recovery.”  
  
Illya closed his eyes. “How on earth did you ever find me?”  
  
“That, young man, was not an easy job,” Alexander Waverly began to explain. “General Rosinov checked every state document pertaining to immigration, repatriation, labor camp detainees, prisons, hospitals... anywhere at all they could have tucked you away. Your name never showed up. Both Mr. Solo and I knew you were not a victim of the explosion in Wisconsin, but beyond that, we kept hitting dead ends. We even considered the possibility that this was a ruse by Thrush, not the KGB at all. But the general knew Colonel Ivan Kigaroff held a grudge against you and went to his labor camp to check out the files on new detainees. Again, we came up against another dead end. Kigaroff not only changed your name, he changed the date you were incarcerated to insure your anonymity. Rosinov was savvy enough to look deeper and he finally reviewed recent discipline reports in Kolyma. That’s how he found you.”  
  
“Discipline reports?”  
  
“Yes. He assumed you would be a thorn in Kigaroff's side. It was your own actions that led us to you. Rosinov knew it was your file when he read that you killed a rather large man with your bare hands. Snapped his neck...a clean kill. Then immediately tried to escape for the third time. Just your style.”  
  
“You went above and beyond the call of duty on my behalf,” Illya said somberly, picking at his ice cream. “I appreciate that.”  
  
Alexander Waverly smiled. “I wouldn’t get too emotional over it, Mr. Kuryakin. I simply couldn’t listen to Mr. Solo complain about breaking in another partner. He can be rather irritating. It was actually easier to sneak behind the Iron Curtain and snatch you from under their noses than to hear him fuss about all the time he’d invested in your partnership.”  
  
Illya chuckled slightly and nodded, realizing the undertone in his boss’ statement. Alexander Waverly would never openly admit going to extremes, endangering one top agent to rescue another under such circumstances. And he certainly wouldn’t cave in to Napoleon Solo’s or anyone else’s verbal pressure. The UNCLE chief did go above and beyond the proverbial call of duty because he chose to.  
  
Napoleon Solo strolled in five minutes later carrying a small suitcase and a brown paper bag. He had spent the past week on a top secret, high risk assignment out of the country and returned several hours earlier. Timing was perfect to meet up with his partner in New York.  
  
Illya was finishing his last spoonful of chocolate ice cream and scraping out the bottom of the bowl when his partner appeared.  
  
“I see someone beat me to the punch,” Napoleon smiled, looking at Mr. Waverly while waving the brown bag.  
  
“One can never have too much ice cream, Napoleon,” Illya said matter-of-factly. “I assume it’s chocolate.”  
  
“I wouldn’t dare enter with any other flavor.” Solo laid the suitcase on Illya’s bed and opened it. “I brought some of your clothing. A black turtleneck and a black turtleneck, wide leg black corduroys and black chinos. Black socks, black left shoe. At least your underwear is white. The selection was rather limited, Illya.”  
  
“Fewer decisions in the morning. It simplifies my life.”  
  
Napoleon opened the brown bag and brought out the ice cream with an unusually cheerful “ta-da!” Two bowls and two spoons followed. He turned to his boss and raised his eyebrows, silently offering him some more ice cream. Alexander Waverly politely declined. The dessert was portioned into the two clean bowls and Illya was handed the larger of the two.  
  
Once again, he sat back in the recliner savoring the ice cream.  
  
“Well, Mr. Solo, fill me in on what transpired,” Mr. Waverly said after his senior agent finally finished playing the Good Humor Man. “How did the affair in Russia go?”  
  
“Russia?” Illya asked, his eyebrows raised.  
  
Napoleon paused, caught off guard by the informality of his boss’ request. Debriefings were generally held in a more formal venue, primarily Waverly’s office. Obviously his boss wanted Illya to hear it as well.  
  
“Were you able to assist General Rosinov with his housecleaning?” Waverly prompted.  
  
“Yes sir. The general was furious that one of his Colonels would have the audacity of going behind his back to procure his own unofficial ‘repatriation’, especially with the assistance of Thrush.”  
  
“I guess the Soviet military has a few scruples,” Illya quipped dryly. He eyed his boss with curiosity, desperately wanted to find out just how chummy the old man and the Soviet General really were, but knew it would be useless pursuing it. If Alexander Waverly wanted it kept secretive, it would have to remain so.

_No one other than Alexander Waverly knew that General Anatoly Rosinov was highly instrumental in bringing Illya Kuryakin to UNCLE. He covertly greased the proverbial wheels to assist the defection. Throughout Kuryakin’s tenure as an UNCLE operative, the general kept close tabs on him through Waverly, pleased that Kuryakin was doing an exemplary job in the name of international law enforcement.  
  
Rosinov had been well aware of Illya’s difficulties fitting into traditional Soviet society. The boy was too damned smart and headstrong. In his youth, no one had successfully pulled in the reins or crushed his spirit, although many had tried. Realizing that his intelligence would probably be the death of him, Anatoly secretly worked out the arrangement for an “accidental” meeting between Illya Nickovich Kuryakin, who was then a student in Paris, and Alexander Waverly. The rest was history.  
  
Unfortunately, this foiled Ivan Kigaroff’s plans. Kuryakin’s defection made Kigaroff the brunt of the KGB’s humor. After his demotion, he was fortunate that General Rosinov granted him some degree of reinstatement, and later the position as commander of the Kolyma labor camp._

“Kigaroff lied, cheated, and abused his position beyond what the General deemed allowable,” continued Solo. “He targeted Illya under the guise of an official government action, and with Thrush’s help, tracked him down and abducted him.”  
  
“I assume everything ran smoothly,” Mr. Waverly said.  
  
“The team worked out well. Two agents were Latvian and one Hungarian. And of course, the Kaminsky brothers were invaluable getting us across the Tundra for a second time.”  
  
“As fur trappers again?” Illya asked.  
  
“No. Actually, even you would not have recognized them, Illya. This time, they were ice fishermen. Same horses, same sleigh, different sign. Blond curly hair, beards, and overalls. No fur, just lots and lots of smelly fish.”  
  
Illya curled up his nose at the thought of the awful fish soup he eaten more than he cared to remember. “And I assume their names are not Kaminsky,” Illya continued.  
  
“But they are really brothers. They took us to a remote part of Eastern Russia where we found Grous and Beaudet. Ivan Kigaroff finally disclosed that his Thrush friends were staying at his “dacha’.”  
  
“His summer home? In the dead of winter? How did they keep warm?” Illya was amused by their poor choice of hideaway. “Dachas rarely have running water or indoor plumbing, let alone heating systems.”  
  
“They **were** rather cold when we picked them up. We took them to separate UNCLE headquarters outside of Russia.” Napoleon paused a second and smiled. “For some strange reason, Illya, they assumed I was dead.”  
  
“I assured them you had died in Wisconsin, ” Illya confessed. “Alexi corroborated. I figured they would let the dead rest in peace.”  
  
“Whatever became of Alexi and his comrades?” Alexander Waverly asked.  
  
“After in intense interrogation, General Rosinov stripped them of their KGB titles and sent them to Cottage 12.”  
  
“Of blessed memory,” Illya said flatly. He looked Solo directly in the eye. “What about Kigaroff?”  
  
Napoleon tried not showing too much pleasure in his next statement, and in a very detached, professional tone reported to his boss and partner that Ivan Kigaroff, the former Colonel Ivan Kigaroff, was now in the hands of the KGB himself. No rank or privilege. This time he was a prisoner. General Rosinov had the decency to send him to a different labor camp than Kolyma, but still one that was under his jurisdiction.  
  
“So once Thrush and the KGB see I’ve returned to the world of the living, all the people who could dispute that have been safely tucked away,” Illya surmised, nodding his head at the feasibility.  
  
“And General Rosinov cannot be connected to you in the least,” Waverly added. “After all, he executed Yvegney Petrovich Gronski in Kolyma, not Illya Nickovich Kuryakin.”  
  
A slight smile crossed Illya’s face, then a snort of laughter. “I did tell Kigaroff I’d haunt him from the grave.”  
  
Napoleon turned his attention to Illya again. “On a final note, I thought you’d be pleased to hear that by now...” Solo checked his watch. “...the Kaminsky brothers have dropped off one Misha Mikalic to some remote spot in the backwoods of Russia. He’s safely back home with his wife and son.”

**FINIS**


End file.
